Righteous
by Sunsetter Nymphetamine
Summary: (Note: Broken into a four part series on AO3) Sam and Dean Winchester are criminally inclined men with black market and underworld connections, enabling them to travel the country, killing and stealing as they please. However, when a supremacist group takes an interest in Sam, the brothers find that they have been tangled in a complex plot for the better part of their lives.
1. Introduction

Author's Note: Hi. This is the first chapter of Righteous, posted as a four part series on Archive of our Own under the account name Ashitanoyuki (yes, that is me, message my AO3 account to confirm it). This fic is not nice, not pleasant, and is potentially triggering. Warnings for rape, kidnap, violence, graphic murder, torture, attempted genocide, cannibalism, slavery, and a bunch of other things. I have not yet decided what to do with the extremely explicit chapters-I might well just post links to explicit scenes, since if I am correct, FFN does not allow graphic sex scenes.

Do not take advice from this story. If you are easily offended, this is not for you. If you are easily grossed out, this is not for you. There will be Wincest, Destiel, Samifer, and a whole bunch of other pairings, none of which are healthy, none of which are pleasant. Consider yourself warned. Whining about the graphic, obscenely twisted nature of the story will likely put me in the hospital from laughter. I don't like hospitals, so please just don't. Criticism is fine, insults that contain no criticism are not (insults that contain criticism may sting a bit, but I will still appreciate them in the end).

0o0o0o0o0

Black market connections and shady favors had never been a problem for the Winchester family. Perhaps that is why John Winchester had felt no qualms about killing his wife on November second, 1983. It may have been a fight, a misunderstanding, or a simple rage, but even though he had barely been old enough to remember, Dean Winchester was certain that his mother had died for no better reason than his father's twisted, deranged passion for murder. His memories of that night were hazy; had anyone asked him, he would have described pulling his baby brother out of a room painted in blood as his father doused the house with gasoline. They never went back to the charred wreck of a place. Had it not been for his father's focus on the importance of family, he might have not even remembered that his last name was Winchester; he never used his real name for anything official again. Starting from the night when his father killed his mother, he became a shadow of a person, jumping from place to place with his father and brother, never staying in one area long enough for the cops to catch on to his father's illicit deals and murder sprees.

Dean was ten years old the first time he killed a man. He had no sooner gotten Sammy home from school than his father grabbed his brother and stuffed him in the tiny closet of their ramshackle motel room. If asked, he would have reminisced about helping his father drag one of the creaky double beds in front of the door—"Sammy is too young to see this yet," his father had said—and grabbing a shotgun on his father's orders. "Make sure the silencer is on," the man had said, or something to that extent. Dean could not have told an asker about every murder he committed, but he would have insisted that a man always remembers his first kill, especially if he was not a man when he made it. He remembered pressing the gun to the man's temple as his father held him by the shoulders, pleas silenced by a greasy rag soaked in motor oil. "Caught this bastard trying to break into the car," John had said, looking at the man in disgust, or had he met Dean's eyes with that cold, lifeless stare he had when he had been drinking? It would be foolish to expect Dean to remember. What he did remember was the look of terror in the man's watery grey eyes, terror mixed with disbelief that his killer was only a child. Dean could have told anyone about the kick from the shotgun and the mess of blood and brains that oozed onto the floor as he shot the man point-blank in the temple. He could have reminisced about covering the man with a threadbare sheet, about pulling Sammy out of the closet and ordering him to keep his mouth shut, keep it _shut_and never speak of this incident, especially not to anyone at his next school. Dean was not stupid; a kill right in their motel room meant that they were moving towns yet again.

They never stayed in one place more than two months, and even then that was only if they were lucky. Dean grew used to changing his name to match the identity his father chose, to changing schools, and above all, to keeping an eye on Sam, who never seemed to adjust very well to a life of moving and secrets. Family was everything—John had taught them that, and if Dean knew anything, it was that John was right or the dissenter was dead. People were not important; they were stupid and meaningless. Family was the only thing that mattered, family and the ones close to it. That meant that it was his responsibility to keep Sammy in line, for his sake and for John's. If John went to jail, he and Sammy would be shipped off to foster care, and he would never see him again. John had made that perfectly clear. So he put on a brave face at school and lied through his teeth to Mr. Singer—Bobby, as the family contact insisted upon being called—and perfected his speech excusing Sam's tales of his father's hobbies as the result of too many horror movies and never, ever talked back when John took him along to help him bury a body. Looking back, Dean would not have called it a good life or a happy childhood, but it was the one that he had, and as long as Sammy was in it, everything was all right.

0o0o0o0o0

Sam was seventeen when he decided that he had to get out at any cost. All the lying, and the moving, and the killing that had formed his childhood had taken a toll on him, he would have said. In truth, it was none of the above. He had developed a taste for killing the first time he had gunned a man down, at fourteen years old. There was a rush, a thrill to it, that was certain, but it was a risky business with too much chance for error and arrest. Smart enough to get into college on a full ride, Sam would have told anyone who asked that he wanted to make something of his life, but that would be a lie—it was simply that working as a prosecutor for murder cases would allow him to kill indirectly, and most importantly, legally. His father had screamed and thrown things when Sam had shown him his acceptance letter to Stanford, while Dean had stood there watching, intervening only when John went for Sam's throat. If asked, Sam would have lied and said that he had not missed Dean, but truth or not, college was the only way out of this dangerous, illegal life.

Sam's good looks had worked in his favor, where scholarship money did not cover everything. Had sex meant anything to Sam, he would have been miserable putting himself through college, but financial aid did not cover the food and housing he needed to stay off campus, where he belonged. It became a simple routine to wander the streets on the weekends, keeping an eye out for adventurous women and lecherous men. Most of them were lucky enough to make it out alive, though Sam's policies towards his customers did mean that some of them went missing shortly after their encounters. Had anyone thought to question Sam, they would have come away empty, victims of his charming smile and innocent demeanor. His bills went paid, he went fed and educated, and the whole system worked quite nicely in his favor.

Perhaps it would have continued, and he would have reached his dream of becoming a prosecutor and sending men to the chair and the injection, had Dean never knocked on his door.


	2. You Never Get Out

Author's Note: The first real chapter. Nothing terribly scarring in this one, that I can think of. Mentions of prostitution.

0o0o0o0o0

It was an ordinary night for Sam Winchester. The May air was cool, but far from cold, which was a relief after spending four solid months freezing every time he went out to work. Dressed in ripped, skin-tight skinny jeans, his torso bare and his eyes rimmed with just a hint of make-up, he was sufficiently seductive for the average passer-by interested in men, and looked enough unlike himself that any wayward classmates or professors would be unlikely to recognize him. Anonymity was key in prostitution, Sam had long since decided. While the activity would not land him as severe a jail sentence as any of his previous exploits, it would still put a halt on his schooling, and would likely send any chance he had of becoming a successful lawyer into the trash. Still, it was less risky than holding down a legal job—taxed income was likely to jeopardize his financial aid, and then everything he had done would be for nothing. Sam pulled out a needle and thread, carefully stitching his house-key and wallet into the back pocket of his jeans, as was his customary defense against pick-pockets, and slid a worn pocket knife into his front pocket, where it bulged just enough to let any would-be muggers know that he was armed. A proper Winchester, Sam would be ashamed if he ever had to use a knife against a common mugger, but taking them down was always a hassle—his time was better spent fucking the money out of any client with enough cash on hand.

A knock on the door brought him pause. His mind ticked through the possibilities. It was unlikely that he had a visitor—the only acquaintance who knew where he lived was Jessica, the pretty little thing from school he had been stringing along the past several months, and she was in France for the summer. He had paid his rent—he had even paid ahead for the next month, as was his custom, so there was little chance that it was his landlord. He had had a few repeat clients, including one or two who seemed to indicate that they would like to take things beyond their business relationship, but none of the ones who had seemed truly capable of finding out where he lived still drew breath. A neighbor, perhaps, although that was unlikely, given the sort of people who lived in his neighborhood. A few encounters with Sam, and they tended to learn that if he had drugs, he was not the sort to sell or share. Curious, Sam stretched and wandered lazily over to the door.

He barely had time to register that his visitor was human, male, and well-built before the man threw him to the floor and shoved his way in, closing the door and locking it behind him. "Sam. Good to see I can still take you down when it comes to it!"

Sam blinked, staring at the brother he had not seen in four years. "Dean?" he asked incredulously, rising with as much dignity as he could muster. It always surprised him, the way he towered over the brother who had taken care of him all his life. Questions raced through his head—how have you been, what are you doing, do you need to hide from the law—he settled with a simple "How the hell did you find me?"

Dean snorted, jamming his hands deep into the pockets of his beat-up leather jacket. "Good to see you too, Sammy. I'm fine, thanks for asking. I'm not on the run from the law, though it's good to know you're concerned. Yes, I'd love a drink, where's your bar?"

"Bar? Well, haven't you been living the high life?" Sam scoffed, folding his arms across his bare chest. "Answer my question."

"Come on, Sam, we've got the same connections. It wasn't hard to find out what identity you're using. Samuel Greenwich? Dude, you couldn't have picked a more boring name." Dean shook his head, his bright green eyes flitting about the room, taking stock of Sam's simple possessions—lumpy couch, old television, books strewn across the floor, tiny kitchen visible from the living room, door to the bedroom crammed in the corner. "I need to talk to you."

"Make yourself at home, but you're going to have to wait. Money doesn't make itself," Sam said impatiently, turning back to the door.

"Okay, fine. How much for an hour of your time?"

Sam blinked and turned around. "One hundred dollars, ordinarily. I guess I can give you a fifty percent off family discount." Dean's lips twitched with amusement, and Sam couldn't blame him—those weren't words that usually came from the mouth of a prostitute.

"Fine. Sixty it is," Dean said, pulling out a bright pink wallet covered with garish purple hearts. "What?" he said defensively as Sam snickered. "Kill a chick with a wallet, might as well take it, right?" He tossed three twenty dollar bills at Sam. "Call the other ten a tip. Seriously dude, can I get a beer or something? Don't tell me you've gone straight-edge."

"In the fridge," Sam replied carelessly, sinking onto the couch with a regretful sigh. As nice as it was to know that his brother was alive and not yet in prison, he could not help but think that if Dean had gone through the trouble to track him down, it was bad news. "So, what brings you out here anyways? Something tells me if you just wanted a friendly chat you'd have tracked down my number, rather than my address." He looked expectantly at Dean, who pulled two beers out of the fridge and walked back into the living room, handing one to Sam as he sat down.

"Dad's missing," Dean said without preamble, popping the cap off his bottle with his teeth and taking a swig. "Been missing for almost a week now. Cops caught a whiff of him in Seattle and he took off while I stayed to play damage control. He hasn't called, and I can't get ahold of him, but I can't find him in any prison records either. Figured I could use some brains in trying to get him back," he said, an obvious attempt at flattery.

Sam snorted, cracking open his own beer, but putting it down without taking a sip. "Dad? What makes you think I'd want to help you find him? Good riddance to that asshole. Or don't you remember that he tried to add me to his body count?" Still, Sam could not help but feel a slight twinge of concern. Asshole or not, John was still family, and that was important. He sighed and leaned back, propping his head on the armrest of the couch, letting his legs land over Dean's to spill off the edge of the sofa.

"Yeah, he's an ass, but still. Come on, Sammy, this is Dad we're talking about. You know, our father?" Dean took another gulp of his beer. "You know, he wouldn't have really killed you. He regrets attacking you, he's admitted it when drunk. You know that's the only time the old man ever told the truth—he loved you best anyways." Dean shrugged. "It just killed him, you know? You walking out on the family like that."

Sam returned Dean's shrug with one of his own. "Dad can see it how he wants. Me, I wasn't walking out on anyone. If I'd done that, I'd have called the cops on Dad, not gone off to college." He sighed and picked up his beer, taking a long drink. "I'd help you out, but the thing is, I've got an interview coming up. Law school. If I can swing a full ride, I can keep my night job to the weekends. Otherwise it's going to be a nightly thing and run through my savings as well. I'd rather not have to deal with that."

"Damnit Sam!" Dean leapt to his feet, fists clenched, glaring at Sam, whose legs hit the couch with a loud thump. "This is more important than your stupid degree! This is life! This is _family! _I've needed you around these past four years while you were prancing around at law school, and you're screwed up in the head if you think this damn _law school_ is more important than Dad!"

Coldly, Sam placed his beer on the coffee table and rose, glaring down at his brother. He swallowed hard, trying to fight down the sudden burst of rage that coursed through his body. It was a futile effort, he knew. "This is life? Dean, I _have_ a life. This is family? Where were the familial bonds when he tried to strangle me and threw me out of his life? He can say he regrets it all he wants, but I will never view that man as my father again. You needed me? Well, maybe I needed you. You had Dad. Every time I needed to kill a customer? I did that on my own. Every time I had to talk my way out of an arrest for daring to try to put myself ahead in life? No family to help me out there. I've been doing just fine looking out for myself on my own without you, and definitely without Dad." Sam stepped forward, close enough to feel Dean's breath on his chin. "So what are you going to do? Going to force me to go with you? I'd like to see you try."

Dean's eyes hardened. "I was hoping it wouldn't come to this," he said, voice stony and emotionless. His hand went to his belt; quick from the force of old habits, Sam grabbed his wrist as Dean yanked a gun out from the waistband of his loose pants. Dean twisted his wrist, but Sam held on tightly, digging his fingernails into his brother's arm, reaching up to grapple the gun away from him. Quicker than Sam could evade, Dean grabbed Sam's wrist and slackened his gun hand, dropping the weapon and pivoting Sam around, wrenching his brother's arm up behind his back and pulling him flat against his chest. "Getting slow, Sammy," Dean hissed, his breath hot and stale in his brother's ear. "You think you've been taking care of yourself? You wouldn't last five minutes in the real deal anymore." Sam growled as Dean gave his arm a sharp yank, sending a sharp shoot of pain up through his shoulder. "Damn good thing I need you for your brains, not your brawn. Now, you coming the easy way, or do I have to knock you out and kidnap you the old-fashioned way?"

Seething, Sam went slack, allowing his brother to hold him in the uncomfortable submission position. "Fine," he snapped, letting his rage fizzle out to an ember of anger. "I'll go with you for three days. After that, I come back for my interview and go with you until the semester starts. But I keep working my job while I'm running all over the country with you, and I don't want to hear a single fucking argument when I come back here for school, got it?"

"The second one is negotiable. The first one—fine. I've got no problems with you whoring yourself out, as long as you're not bringing your shit back to my car or room," Dean said, easing up his hold on Sam's arm. "So, we good? Can I let you pack your stuff without you throwing a bitch fit?"

"Yeah, fine," Sam said, jerking out of Dean's loosened grip. "After I hit my quota for the night. You go ahead and pack my stuff up, and I'll be back before dawn, got it?"

Dean groaned, bending down to retrieve his gun. "Yeah, yeah, fine. Go paint the town slutty, and we'll leave as soon as you get back, got it?"

"Crystal clear," Sam replied drily, giving his brother a mock salute before heading out the door.

0o0o0o0o0

It was strange, that Sammy's sleeping form in the passenger seat brought back so many memories. Dean sped down the highway, deserted at four in the morning, rock music playing from the same tapes that he had listened to as a teenager. It was strangely reminiscent of the first time he had driven the Impala on his own—alone on the road at far too early in the morning, Sam passed out from lack of sleep despite the loud volume of Dean's music. Dean chuckled, and smoothed his brother's hair back with one hand, lazily steering with the other. Sam twitched and grumbled, but did not wake up, and that, too, was familiar. He had always been good at sleeping when he could, surroundings be damned. Dean had never picked up the habit—noise usually meant people, and with the exception of Dad, Sammy, and a few other very select allies, people meant danger. Dean was careful; he was not a wanted man, not yet, but he was not enough of a damn fool to think that his circumstances would always be the same. There was always a chance that some slippery witness to his crimes had escaped his careful purges and gone to the police, or was out seeking vigilante justice for himself.

Dean supposed that Sam had turned to softer crimes now anyways, but even before he had downgraded from murder and robbery to petty prostitution, he had never shared Dean's paranoia. Dean and John had always been around to be paranoid for him.

Dean had never envied Sam for getting out of the life, for heading to college to try to have a normal existence, a future, even. He had not resented him, not the way John had, but something inside Dean was keenly aware that the house with a picket fence, filled with a wife and a dog and 2.6 kids was not for him. Even had he wanted to turn into an honest life, he doubted that he would know how. What was the point in going to school when all it did was make you a shmuck, a soft sucker just waiting to be knifed for your wallet or murdered for the rights to your wife? Who would honestly choose to pour their time into a soul-sucking job under some slave-driver boss when they could keep their own hours, work on their own time if and when they pleased, taking what they wanted and needed at any time? Who wanted to throw themselves on the mercy of the law, walking the narrow line, unable to stray when provoked or desiring lest some thugs with nightsticks and inflated egos come to haul them off to a cage for the rest of their life? Dean was no fool; he knew that in his line of work, his line of entertainment, he was at risk for arrest and imprisonment on an hourly basis, but at least he would get there honestly, with no pretense at virtue along the way. If he ever had to stand before a judge for robbery or murder, there would be no blubbering, no claims of self-defense or a crime of passion. Cold-blooded murder was clean; robbery for the sake of convenience with no pretense was honorable, and Dean prided himself on upholding his own personal sense of honor.

It was nearly noon before they reached the motel, a crummy building straddling the border between California and Nevada. Dean pulled into a parking space, the dividing lines worn to near invisibility on the cracked black asphalt, and punched Sam hard in the shoulder. "Wake up, sleeping beauty," he called, turning Baby off and turning his attention back towards his brother. "Hey. Bitch," he said, shoving his brother when he did nothing but stir slightly and roll away at the sound of Dean's voice.

"Fuck off, Jess, don't have classes today," Sam muttered, pulling the collar of his jacket up over his eyes.

"Jess?" Dean snorted disbelievingly. "I sound like a chick to you? Come on Sammy, we're here and I need my four hours. Up." He wrenched Sam's hands off of his face, pulling the jacket off away from his brother's eyes.

Sam turned towards him and cracked his eyes open. "Oh, right. Your ugly mug's not what I'm used to waking up to," he grumbled, rubbing his eyes with the same bleary look he had sported all throughout childhood, finally sitting straight, blinking at the light as though it had personally offended him.

"Yeah, well, get used to it." Dean smacked him lightly on the back of his head. "Come on, you can sleep in the room. I'll fill you in on everything when I've gotten my own beauty sleep, now let's go."

Sam muttered something under his breath, but exited the car gracefully, stretching as he did. "Got any food?" he asked, walking around to the backseat to grab his duffel bag and backpack, shaggy brown hair swinging in front of his eyes as he bent over to pick them up.

"Yeah, in the cooler on the floor," Dean answered, shutting the car door behind him after exiting. He waited for Sam to dig the cooler out, locking the car as soon as all the doors were shut. "Come on, you can eat inside. The sooner we get checked in, the sooner we can finish sleeping, the sooner we can get everything sorted out and go looking for Dad, got it?"

Sam's huff and subsequent silence was enough of an answer for Dean. He checked them into the motel under the name Tyler Perry, and before long he was sprawled out on a creaky bed, the lumpy mattress a godsend as far as he was concerned. Not bothering to so much as take off his shoes, Dean wriggled under the covers and closed his eyes, ready to sleep.

"Dean?" Sam's voice was quiet, uncharacteristic of his loud, outgoing brother. "You said the cops caught wind of Dad. How'd they manage to find him out and not you?"

Dean groaned, rolling over and aiming a scorching look at his brother, seated on his own bed, power bar halfway unwrapped in his large hands, soft and smooth after years of no doubt pampered college living. "Because Dad was reckless and used his own name, and I was smart enough to stick to an alias. Because we weren't staying in the same place, and I destroyed the phone he called to tell me he was in deep shit. I told you, we'll go over everything once I've gotten my sleep, now shut up and let me recharge for a few hours.

"Fine." Sam bit almost defiantly into his power bar, chewing obnoxiously, no doubt in an attempt to irritate Dean. It was working; Dean grimaced and resisted the urge to teach his brother a lesson the old-fashioned way, the way he had ever since he was old enough to exert any sort of power over his younger brother. He was too tired for a power play, especially not since Sammy was no longer a small, scrawny kid, able to be bullied by Dean without fighting back. He pulled the covers up over his ears and snuggled down into the bed, falling into his customary light sleep after only a few minutes of Sam's loud chewing.

The sun was setting when Dean woke again. Sam had sprawled out on his bed, laptop resting on his chest, head propped up by what looked like every pillow the motel had ever possessed. "Who's sleeping beauty now?" Sam asked without looking at him, surprising Dean. Perhaps his brother's awareness skills were not as dull as he had thought them to be.

"Shut up, bitch," Dean groaned, kicking the covers off and sitting up, twisting to pop the kinks from his spine.

"Jerk," Sam replied, almost reflexively, if Dean was reading his brother properly. "All right, time to talk now. What happened, and how exactly are you expecting to find Dad?"

"All business right away?" Dean asked, planting his feet on the floor and leaning forward. "Okay, here's the run down. Dad and I were in Seattle, working some banks. He got a bit itchy with the trigger and killed eleven people when some security guard tried to put out a 911 call. Security guy, unfortunately, lived, and came out of his coma two days later. He had a pretty reliable sketch of Dad put together, and when the cops came to the motel, turns out the idiot had signed in using his real name. Guess he thought it had been long enough, or something like that. Anyways, Dad killed both the cops getting out, but he had to high-tail it from there. A couple of people had seen me with Dad, so I got to play damage control when I found out, telling them I had known him by some alias he's never actually had, said he'd told me he could offer me work if I kept around so he could find me. Soon as the suspicion was off me, I went looking for you. I haven't heard from Dad, which means if he's lying low, he's lying real low, so I'm guessing the search for him has gone federal. Right now, we need to find him, help him get a really convincing disguise and alias together—more convincing than the ones we've always used—and find some way to derail the investigation so he can get on with his life without cops sniffing around him the whole time. Make sense?" He met Sam's eyes, unreadable as the tall man mulled things over.

"So what you're saying is, Dad fucked up and we're supposed to clean up his mess for him," Sam said finally, closing his laptop with a sigh. "What do you want? If you need someone to get him new ID, get Bobby. Need someone to screw with police records, Ash is always willing to keep his trap shut if you pay him enough. I don't see why you need me to get involved with this one."

Dean sighed, running a hand through his thick, short hair. "I need to track him, for one," he said, thinking hard in an attempt to choose words that would not anger his brother. "I need to find out where he is, and sure, I could use Ash for that, but the cops have been sniffing around Roadhouse for a while, and I'd rather not get Ash or anyone arrested, or have the cops move Dad if he did get himself arrested and is in jail somewhere. I'm also going to need back-up," he said. He noticed a slight flare in Sam's eyes as his brother stiffened at his words. "Come on, a situation like this—I know it's going to get to the point where I need to blow off steam, and you can't blame me for that. Just because your college-boy ass has moved on to bigger and better ways of stress relief doesn't mean we all work that way. I need someone to help me make sure no witnesses live to report me and help me cover my tracks in general. I don't trust anyone else with that."

Sam snorted, not giving away whether he took Dean's words as a compliment or as a pathetic show of weakness. It was a moment before he replied. "So, you don't need me to help you find Dad, you need me to be in your position, playing clean-up for you when you pull an idiotic move," he said finally, his face still unreadable. "Fine, I get it. You're damn lucky you're my brother, otherwise I'd probably kill you myself." He stretched, arching gracefully as he worked the stiffness from his muscles; Dean almost wished that he had refused, just so that he would have an excuse to show Sam who was boss. "Are we staying the night here, or moving on?" he asked, voice almost cheerful.

"Staying here and looking sounds preferable to me," Dean said, rising from the bed to make his way to the cooler. He unzipped the bottom pocket, pulling out his old laptop from on top of his daily clothing change—saved time pulling luggage from the Impala every time he needed to crash for the night, or so he had always been taught. "Police records or current events?" he asked, settling down into one of the motel room's rickety chairs.

"I'll take the records. You look for anything that screams Dad," Sam said, turning his attention back to his laptop. Dean bit back a grin—just like old times, Sammy taking on the more challenging part of the research—before turning his attention to his own work, and anything that might imply that their father had passed through town.


	3. Back to Business

Author's Note: Warning for murder, not dreadfully graphic, but still existent.

* * *

"Check for cameras," Sam ordered, his steely eyes never leaving the terrified face of the motel manager. "Destroy any that you find, and delete everything on the computer. I don't want anyone knowing that we were here, aliases or not. I'd like them to stay clean just a little while longer." He tapped the trigger of his .22 casually, enjoying the look of sheer terror that passed over the paper white face of the motel manager, a slightly overweight man in his forties. Sam wondered if he had a family; he hoped that he did, that the man's family would be called in to identify his bloody, sticky remains when they were done with him. He had nearly forgotten the adrenaline rush that accompanied every kill, every pathetic victim terrified for their lives at the end of his weapon. Had he honestly given this up for college? For the life of him, he could not remember why.

"Outside's clean, I already checked," Dean said, casually looking around the front lobby. "Got one, got two, bang bang," he said with a laugh, pulling up a chair and standing to rip the first camera from the walls. "Hope you weren't expecting any of this to get to the police" he taunted, tossing the manager a charming grin that did not mask the sadistic glee in his eyes. Sam's blood surged at the feral look on his brother's face; were he not so passionate about murder himself, he would wonder how a person could take such delight in such a simple action. He held the gun steady as Dean ripped the cameras from the walls and sauntered over to the front desk. "Say bye-bye to your computer," he laughed, picking the machine up and smashing it to the floor, taking out the stubborn bits with his own gun. "Money from the cash register?" he asked Sam, cocking his head inquisitively.

"Doesn't hurt," Sam replied with a shrug. "We're going to torch the place anyways—might as well not let it go to waste."

"If we're gonna torch the place, we might as well raid the rooms first," Dean said, opening up the drawer and pulling out several stacks of crinkled bills. He snorted in derision. "Cheap place. Man, you'd think a freaking hotel would have more on hand," he said, pocketing the meager pickings."

"You're the one who likes to keep it cheap," Sam said, smiling at the manager. "But yeah, we can hit a few other rooms. How are you on bullets?"

"Pretty good," Dean answered, holstering his gun. "I'll go smear the license plates and you take care of this guy?"

"Oh, you're so nice, leaving me the fun part," Sam practically purred, shooting his brother a sadistic grin. He turned his attention back to the terrified man in front of him. "Now, shall we?"

"No," the man whispered, clutching the countertop with a white-knuckled death grip. "No, please! Please, I have two girls, their mother's a monster, she can't get custody of them, it would—"

"Then it's your lucky day, because you live in a country with a foster care system," Sam said, grinning sadistically. He shot the man once, twice, three times to make sure that he was good and dead, and made his way out to the Impala, enjoying the gleeful rush shooting through his body. Dean was standing at the car next to theirs, having ripped the door to the gas tank off with a crowbar. Oversized turkey baster in hand, he was siphoning gas slowly from the other car into a gas can, methodically squeezing every drop from the vehicle. "That was fast," he said nonchalantly as Sam approached. "Thought you were going to take your time with that one."

"He started begging right away, and his voice was annoying," Sam answered, squatting beside him. "What are you doing anyways?"

"Trying to get enough gas to light this place up," Dean replied, plunging the turkey baster back into the gas tank. "It's gonna take a while though. Go kill things or something."

Sam scowled and opened the Impala's trunk. After a few minutes of digging, he found a long, plastic tube. "Move," he ordered, shoving Dean out of the way and inserting the tube into the gas tank. "Can't believe I know this and you don't, you've spent a lot more time on the road than I have," he muttered, raising the end of the tube to his lips. He took a deep breath and pulled, sucking at the end of the tube until he could feel the gasoline rising, traveling through the cylinder. Before it could touch his mouth, Sam pulled away and pointed the end of the tube at the gas can, watching as liquid flowed from the tube into the canister. "Quit wasting time and go get more," he ordered, well aware that the Impala was stocked with at least three gas cans at all times. "And fill up the car while you're at it," he added, turning to grin at the shocked look on Dean's face.

"Shit, Sammy, who knew you could put your job to so many uses?" Dean breathed, shaking his head and walking over to the trunk of the Impala. Sam snickered and finished filling up the gas can, and then picked up a spare crowbar and the third can, heading over to another car. As quietly as he could, he ripped the door of the gas tank off and began the process of siphoning out the gas again, glad for the ornamental shrubbery that blocked the view of the motel parking lot from the road. When the canister was full, he lugged it back over to the Impala and popped the gas tank's door, filling the tank up with free gas. Why pay when you can steal from the dead?

"So how's it going to be?" Dean asked when they had finished. "Douse the sucker in gasoline and hit a few rooms, then get out and light her up?" He grinned, teeth glinting in the weak sunlight.

"Sounds like a good plan to me," Sam said, looking through the trunk and pulling out a few more guns. He tossed a semi-automatic to Dean, who caught it with the ease of long practice. "I'm gonna say no torture on this one, though. We're walking a fine line with getting caught here."

Dean grunted in agreement. He picked up his gas can and walked towards the motel. Sam followed, admiring the power and excitement barely contained in Dean's muscular frame. Oh, this was just like old times, but perhaps better for the long break he had taken. Sam breathed in deeply, cherishing the smell of the clear air, soon to be filled with smoke and ash.

The majority of the gas went to the motel's check-in room, the place where there were most likely to be traces of the Winchesters. Sam grinned as his brother poured gasoline over the counter, the floor, the body of the manager; he moved to the other rooms contained in the small lobby of the motel, not concerned about saving fuel for the guest's rooms. Those did not need to burn, though it would be beautiful if they did.

The rooms saturated, Sam met Dean at the front of the hotel. "You ready?" he asked, smiling innocently down at his older brother, grinning as he laughed.

"Always ready to kill with you, Sammy," Dean replied, placing a hand possessively on the back of Sam's neck. "Now let's go before anyone comes out and we have to kill witnesses in public, okay?"

Sam smirked, turning and walking away from his brother, leaving Dean to follow him. He passed over the first several rooms, before he spotted one that was clearly occupied. He turned his head to wink at Dean, and kicked the door open, the cheap wood splintering and nearly flying off its hinges.

The elderly couple barely had time to scream before Sam opened fire, shooting the old man three times before taking out his wife. He stood by the door as Dean picked up a towel and used it to carefully, without touching anything, go through the couples' pockets and the lady's purse. "Not much, but it's something," he said with a shrug, looking up at Sam with blood-crazed eyes. Sam wanted nothing more than to throw him down and smear the blood all over his face, but he restrained himself; they were making an effort to not leave DNA at the scene, after all. "Hopefully the next room will have better pickings."

Sam could not bring himself to care about the money. The sight of the couple, beautifully dead and covered in dark, rich blood, his brother crouched amongst their remains—that was worth more than any amount of money to him. Still, hitting more rooms meant more kills, and after his stint at living by the law—well, to a certain degree at least—he was itching to kill again. Four years without a single proper body to add to his count had left Sam wanting more than he could have possibly realized. He nodded, unable to find words, and lead the way out of the crumbling room to the next door that showed signs of habitation. Three rooms later, and he was starting to get itchy; he would love to continue killing, but someone could call the cops any minute.

"We should go, Dean," he said reluctantly, touching his brother's shoulder with a bloody hand. Dean nodded, rising from the pile of bodies—three teenagers and their father, a man who had carried a surprising amount of money for someone who had picked such a run-down motel to stay in—and followed Sam out the door, back to the front of the motel. He tossed the towel into the lobby and backed up, gesturing Sam away from the doors. Sam backed away to stand by the car, watching hungrily as Dean struck a match, backed away, and threw it with all his might. Dean bolted as the match made contact with the gasoline soaked floor, the hotel lighting up faster than Sam would have thought was possible.

"Shit shit shit fuck shit!" Dean shouted, sprinting towards the car. Sam threw himself into the passenger's seat as Dean wrenched the door open and leapt with equal vigor into the driver's seat. "Let's go let's go let's go!" he yelled with a whoop, slamming the car into reverse and pulling out of the parking lot so sharply that Sam's head knocked against the window.

"Man," Sam said, laughing, as they finally pulled safely onto the highway. "That was fantastic. Damn I've missed this! We should do it more often."

Dean chuckled as though amused by his brother's enthusiasm. "You always said that, Sam," he laughed, turning the music up as he sped along several miles over the speed limit. Why bother caring about traffic cops when they died just as easily as everyone else? "Nice to know that some things never change."

Sam snickered, mulling Dean's words over in his head. "Yeah, well, did you expect that to?"

"Honestly? Yes," Dean said, speeding up to pass the car in the lane next to them. "Dad and I figured you'd gone soft. Wanted out because you were done killing and living on the wrong side of the law. He was livid that you'd gone straight after all these years, and honestly, I was pretty disappointed too. Never been so happy to be proven wrong!"

Sam snorted. "I was never done killing," he said, laughing cruelly. "I just figured it would be safer to do it legally. Put everyone I could on death row and laugh as they got executed. It's not the same rush as this, but it seemed like it would be close enough."

Dean's fingers tightened almost imperceptibly on the steering wheel. "Well, was it?" he asked finally, voice barely audible over the pounding, encompassing beat of AC/DC.

Sam sighed, loathe to answer. "No," he replied finally, tossing his brother a begrudging look. "No, it wasn't the enough at all. The biggest rush I got wasn't in learning how to get criminals killed, it was killing my customers when they were assholes, and even then, it, how do I put this," he said, grinning at his brother. "It lacked a certain charm. It always does when they're guilty. It's not the same feeling at all."

Dean laughed gleefully. "Dad owes me a grand, when we find him," he said, eyes sparkling with delight. "He bet that you'd gone soft all around. I said that you still had something left in you. Turns out you've still got the whole package, so he's got to pay double stakes!"

"That's good?" Sam replied, slightly perturbed. His Dad had made it perfectly clear, when he tried to kill him, that he had not approved of Sam going to Stanford, but Sam would have never dreamed that his father would ever think that he had lost taste for his old life completely. He supposed he would have to rub it in his Dad's face when they found him. "Speaking of Dad, find any leads?" he asked, determined to change the subject.

Dean shook his head, clearly frustrated. "Nothing that seems like Dad's style," he said regretfully. "A few murders and robberies, but if Dad's done anything recently, it hasn't made the news. Police records have anything?"

Sam hesitated. "Well, there's a Winchester in prison in Kentucky," he said slowly, "trial pending. No first name listed, but it could be Dad. Charges are double homicide and fleeing arrest. If it is Dad, and they link him back to the thing in Seattle, things aren't going to end well." He was reluctant to dash Dean's hopes that their father was still out there, and to be fair, Sam had trouble seeing his father go as far east as Kentucky, but if he was truly worried about being caught for his crimes in Washington, he might have gone that far. "Think we ought to check it out?"

Dean nodded tersely. "Well, it's the closest thing we've got to a lead. Find out who arrested the guy?"

"I can," Sam replied calmly, bloodlust stirring in spite of himself at the look on Dean's face. So strong, so determined, so thirsty for blood and vengeance—he wanted to rip his brother to shreds on the spot. He gripped the edge of his seat, fighting down the urge—not Dean, never Dean, Dean was one of the only people he could never kill.

"Good," Dean replied, eyes still fixed on the road. "Then we'll go to Kentucky and check into this. If it is Dad in prison, we'll bust him out and give those police officers a night they'd never forget, if we were going to let them live through it."

0o0o0o0o0

Dean picked his way through the bloodied remains of the gas station clerk, chuckling at the feral look on his brother's bloodstained face. "Really, Sammy? I leave you alone for ten minutes to fill up the car and you hack our poor dear employee of the month to shreds?" he said teasingly, patting his brother's blood-matted hair. A clump of skin slid off it, onto the sticky floor.

"There's a hose out back," Sam said with a shrug. "I'm not going to mess up your car, so I figured hey, the security cameras are out and no one else is here, what harm could it do?"

Dean chuckled, grabbing his brother's chin and tilting his head, admiring the contrast of the rich, red blood with Sam's tanned, slightly rough skin. "I just can't take you anywhere, can I?" he half-cooed, swiping his hand across the blood on Sam's face. "Okay. Get yourself cleaned up while I liberate the money and replenish our food stock, got it?"

Sam nodded, face deceptively innocent, beautiful while streaked in blood. It was a shame that Sam had to clean up; were it not for the possibility of running into the authorities on the road, Dean would have thought about putting down a tarp and ordering his brother to ride alongside him while smeared in the remains of his kill. It was impractical, though. Reluctantly, Dean let his hands fall away from Sam's face and turned to the cash register, pocketing the contents and wiping down the machine with a paper towel, which he then pocketed. Taking a few more towels with him, he wandered the aisles, stuffing food and water and alcohol into a plastic bag from behind the counter. They would be set for a while now, and all without having to drop a penny. It had not been Dean's plan, but he appreciated Sam's initiative in the matter almost as much as he appreciated the sight of his brother smeared with gore.

Sam was clean and waiting for him in the car by the time he walked outside. Dean made a brief stop at the hose to wash away the blood from his hands and the soles of his boots; he carefully burned the paper towels that he had used to touch the contents of the store, and strode back over to the car, feeling drunk on power and delight in his little brother. "Nice going back there, Sammy," he chuckled, settling into the driver's seat. "Now, where to from here? We're about a day's drive from the edge of Kentucky, unless my map is completely off. Want to keep going, or crash somewhere?"

Sam blinked at him. "It's been a while since I dismembered anyone," he said, smiling contentedly. "I'm tired. Let's drive until we hit a motel a decent ways away and get a room."

Dean laughed. "Okay, we'll do that then. We're going to drive around town a while before that though—have us check in at a time that would have us far away from this place at the time of the killing, just in case." Ordinarily, that tactic would have been obvious to Sam, but considering how long the boy had been away from the family, Dean did not trust that he still remembered to cover all the details in his killings. Best to ensure that he remembered them now, in case Dean was ever in a position where he could not take charge of the cover-up situation.

"I haven't been gone for that long, Dean," Sam said, yawning until his jaw cracked with the strain. "Now shut your cake-hole and drive."

Dean grinned. "Good to know, Sammy. Good to know." He drove until the beginnings of exhaustion began to creep through his body, making him feel dangerously close to nodding off. That in itself was an adrenaline rush, but Dean had driven exhausted enough times to know that the charm wore off when he lost the ability to tell how far in front of him the other cars were. He turned the car around, glad for the empty road—it made the whole operation so much simpler—and retraced his route, stopping at a motel an hour away from the point where he had started to feel impaired.

Sam woke just long enough for Dean to get them checked in, this time under the alias James Hendricks. They did not speak when they reached the room, but rather collapsed onto their separate beds, drained and ready for sleep before continuing their search.

Dean was glad that Sam was still asleep when he woke up, nearly ten hours later. He loved his brother and would never begrudge him the joys of killing, but he was itching to get on the road without having to take the time to clean up after another murder. "Wake up, Sam," he called, tossing his pillow at his sleeping brother. The pillow missed, falling dejectedly to the floor, and Sam stirred but did not wake. Shaking his head, Dean rose and walked the few feet to his brother's bed, shoving him roughly. "You cannot possibly be more tired than me. You slept in the car!" he shouted, by way of a greeting.

Sam groaned and slapped out instinctively with his arm. Dean did not even bother dodging the weak blow. "Come on, princess, rise and shine," he called, ripping the blankets away to expose his brother, still fully clothed down to his shoes. "Got a Winchester to track down and possibly some heads to smash."

Sam grumbled and sat up, blinking wearily. "You couldn't have waited one more hour?" he demanded, rubbing his eyes. "Fuck you, man. I hope someone in the prison takes a liking to you and kidnaps your ass."

"More likely to happen to you than me, pretty boy," Dean chortled, slapping his brother on the back. Sam shot him a dirty look and half-tumbled out of bed, disheveled and clearly still sleepy. Dean loved teasing his brother—it was all too easy, really. The man took offense at so many things!

They were silent through the car ride until they stopped for lunch at a cheap, greasy diner. Dean shook his head in derision at Sam's chicken salad, wolfing down a gloriously rare and juicy cheeseburger himself. The pie could use some work, he mused, gnawing on the dry, crumbly crust, but he'd had worse—this one wasn't bad enough for him to murder the chef, at least.

Finishing his food, he swallowed hard, grinning unabashed at Sam, who had been tapping his fingers impatiently for the better part of ten minutes. "What's eating you, Sammy boy?" he asked boisterously, leaning back in his seat with a contented sigh.

"It's all these people," Sam murmured, glancing quickly around the diner. "We could take them out. I _want _to take them out, Dean. It's driving me crazy—they're such sloppy, lazy, easy pickings. Can we—"

"No," Dean said firmly, cutting off the question before it could finish leaving his brother's mouth. "Absolutely not. A, daylight. B, not enough ammo right now. C, we're getting pretty close to Kentucky, where if you recall, we're going to have to get into a prison without being questioned. That's not going to happen if our faces are all over the five-o' clock news for shooting up an unsecured location." He reached across the table to pat his clearly frustrated brother on the hand. "Cheer up, Hannibal, we'll hit some place after we figure out if this Winchester is Dad, okay?"

Sam shot him a glare. "I don't eat the people I kill," he retorted softly, un-amused by Dean's references. "I suppose I could give it a try, but it seems pretty unsanitary to me. People are disgusting."

"Got that one right," Dean replied cheerfully, pleased by his brother's comeback. "Come on, let's hit the road again. The sooner we check out this prison, the sooner you can get your rocks off over some dead bodies."

Sam smirked. "That's a great way of putting it Dean. Really classy," he said, pushing himself away from the table with a sigh. He hesitated, and then slapped some money down on the table, mouth twisting in a reluctant grimace. "Guess if we're trying to be inconspicuous we'd better pay our tab," he muttered, looking almost sadly at the money.

"Eh, we'll make it all back," Dean said cheerfully, clapping Sam on the shoulder and steering him out to the car to continue their journey.

0o0o0o0o0

Several tables away from where the two men had been sitting, a trench-coat clad man with piercing blue eyes and messy black hair pulled his cell phone unobtrusively out of his pocket. He knew that the two men had not expected to be overheard, but Jimmy Novak had always had fantastic hearing, or had at least for as long as he could remember, which, granted, only spanned five years. Still, five years of memory, and three years in the FBI left him with a clear grasp of the situation. He waited a few minutes until he could be sure that the men were safely gone—he was off the clock, and not supposed to tail suspects without backup—before he stepped outside and half-ran to his car, dialing his partner along the way. "Henriksen," he panted as his partner picked up.

"Novak?" Henriksen sounded surprised—Jimmy rarely called when he was off the clock. "Something happen?"

"Overheard two men at a diner. They were talking about murders and possibly shooting up the place." Jimmy strapped himself into his seat, reversing the car and taking the wheel with one hand, holding the phone flat to his ear with the other. "They're headed to Kentucky, to sneak into a prison. We should alert the cops in the area, tell them to keep an eye out for something fishy."

Henriksen exhaled loudly. "Novak, we can't arrest them without proof of wrongdoing, you know," he reminded his young, overeager partner.

"I know," Jimmy replied, speeding down the highway towards his partner's house. "I still think it would be a good idea to put the cops on alert for these two. Something in the way they talked about it made me think they're serious about killing people."

"Well, there has been a record increase in murders following a similar MO across the mid-west over the past decade, but Kentucky seems a little far east to fit the profile." There was a slight scuffing sound over the phone. "Still, these might be our guys. Got a description?"

"Not much of one," Jimmy admitted. "Didn't want to attract attention to myself by staring. Both men, both tall, the taller one had brown hair and I think the shorter one was blond."

"Not much to go on, Novak," Henriksen said, though there was no real exasperation in his voice. "Hey. You did good in calling me. I'll put the word out to all the districts in Kentucky that have prisons, see what shows up. Meet me at headquarters as soon as you can get there, got it?"

"Yeah, I got it," Jimmy said, hanging up without a good-bye. Their last investigation had had them both in Ohio, working out of a temporary headquarters in Henriksen's basement—they were lucky that his partner had a house in the area, considering that the local police force was a pain in the ass about giving out room space, even though the force had been the ones to call them in. It was even luckier now—they did not have a reason to use the police force's building for a potential crime, not even something with proof or a body count, outside of the district, and Jimmy did not trust his hotel room to be secure enough for a meeting of this nature.

He parked a block away from the house and walked, unlocking the door with the spare key Henriksen had made for him. He locked the door behind him and headed down to the basement, where his partner waited with a computer and a tape recorder. "Can you remember everything they said?"

"Yes," Jimmy replied. Perhaps it was the amnesia that kept him from remembering everything before the last five years, but since then, he had developed a knack for remembering everything, down to the most minute of details, that happened around him. He sat, and began his work repeating everything he had heard, the keys clacking away as his partner typed out the evidence.


	4. Rubble and Ash

Warning: Character Death

* * *

Sam fidgeted awkwardly, tugging at the brisk fabric of his freshly purchased suit. "Refresh me on who we are again?" he asked, shooting his brother a questioning look.

"John McCartney and Paul Lennon," Dean replied, adjusting his own tie. "We're pre-law students from the University of Ohio. Bobby found someone to fix us up some transcripts, and any calls made from any police station in Kentucky to the school will re-route straight to his phone. Gotta love Ash for things like that," he said, grinning. "We're here on an independent study project to interview incarcerated people before their trials, and Winchester was one of the ones we picked. Got a note from the Dean of Students explaining our project in case anyone asks." He pulled out an official looking letter, emailed to Dean's computer that morning, the forged signature identical to the Dean's real mark. "You're Paul, I'm John. Have a driver's license," he added, tossing a small plastic card to Sam, who caught it effortlessly. "All set and ready to go?" he asked, jamming his hands into his suit pockets.

"Don't wreck your suit," Sam replied. He was nervous, as much as he hated to admit it. It was no big deal if it was a bust; he had been a pre-law student, after all, and he could fake a legitimate pre-law project proposal in his sleep, but if the man they were there to see was actually his father… Well, the last time he had seen the man, he had nearly ended up dead. Sam would be lying if he said that did not put a damper on his enthusiasm to see the man face to face.

"All right, then. Let's hit the road!" Dean grabbed the keys to the Impala from the small bedside table in the hotel room—an actual hotel, more fitting for a pair of college students with parents to pay their tuition, the two had decided. They'd make the money up somehow—Sam was voting for more murder and burning, although Dean was strangely resistant to that idea.

The hotel was not far from the prison in which Winchester was being held. Sam gritted his teeth as they were searched, making a mental note to come back and slaughter the security guards at his first opportunity. The only people who got to touch him were family and paying customers—it did not matter that the once-over was purely business-like and just a part of the man's job; his touch was still offensive and irritating to Sam.

The warden, a short, tough looking woman, asked them surprisingly few questions before directing them to a visiting room, all bullet-proof glass and dented black corded phones. "We'll have him out in a couple of minutes," was all she said, before retreating and leaving the two alone, sitting awkwardly on stools, and waiting for the prisoner to emerge. Sam clenched his hands. _Please don't be Dad, please don't be Dad, please don't be Dad _he chanted in his head, grinding his teeth together slightly with impatience.

He seemed shrunken, uncharacteristically cowed as a guard led him out, but the Winchester in question was most definitely their father. He heard Dean inhale sharply through his teeth, and kicked him lightly. "Mister Winchester?" he said, doing his best to keep his voice strictly professional, and if he wavered a bit, well, as far as the guards knew, he was a pampered college student here to interview the first criminal he had ever met. "My name is Paul Lennon, and this is my project partner, John McCartney. We're here to ask you some questions for a project."

John Winchester looked up, his eyes flashing in recognition. He studied Sam's face, and then Dean's, a delighted look crossing his tough features. "Well, well, well. Law students, I presume?" he asked, shooting Sam a knowing look.

Sam was surprised to realize that he wanted to laugh at the recognition. Seeing his father was far less painful than he had thought it would be. "Yes. We're working on a project, if you could answer some questions for us?" The whole thing was ridiculous, but Sam knew that they could not risk talking openly to the man.

"Yeah, yeah, sure kid. What do you guys want to know?" John asked flippantly, ever the perfect actor of apathy.

Dean butted in. "Well, for starters, you're here on charges of a double homicide. Are you pleading innocent or guilty, or insanity at your trial?"

John snorted, rolling his eyes indignantly. "Kid, I'm not going to trial. I'm not sitting through some pansy university judge telling me I did wrong and I need to die for my crimes. I'm going to go out on my own terms, straight enough answer for you?"

Sam swallowed hard, reminding himself to keep it impersonal just in case anyone was watching. "Right, well, if you do make it to trial, what are you going to plead?" he asked, keeping his voice as neutral and calm as possible. He clenched his hands under the table; his father was not going to commit suicide, not on his watch.

John laughed, a sharp bark of a noise. "Guilty, son," he said, spreading his arms wide, carelessly. "Guilty as the devil himself. I've got nothing to hide, nothing to be ashamed of. So I took a couple of bastards out; who hasn't wanted to do that from time to time?" He leaned forward, carefully meeting first Sam's eyes, and then Dean's. "Of course, I've always wanted to go out with a bang, so nothing would make me happier than to see the whole prison go boom with me. But I guess that's not going to happen. Not like I'll have a couple of kids who know how to make bombs march in here and take my last wishes to heart."

Sam swallowed hard. "Yes, that would be rather unrealistic, Mr. Winchester," he said, nodding imperceptibly. Dean shot him a horrified look, to which Sam replied by kicking him again. "All right, well, you said that you wanted to kill your victims. Why? Did they provoke you?"

"Provoke, exist, same thing," John replied, leaning back, noticeably more relaxed now. "Out there being a happy little friend set, walking a dog and gossiping, makes me sick just to think about it. Other people, they think the world is nice and shiny, all dogs and friends and giggling over some jackass at work making a fool of himself asking some chick out. I just taught them that the world isn't so happy and shiny, and now they know."

Dean nodded carefully. "So, um, have you always wanted to kill happy people?" he asked, clearly scrabbling to think up a question. Sam sighed; his brother could have phrased it worse, at least.

John laughed, clearly finding the situation amusing. Sam would have too, were it not for the request his father had made of them. "Boy, I've been killing since you were in pull-ups," he chuckled, grinning at his oldest son. "I've never regretted a single kill, not one. Took my whore wife out first, and never looked back. Skanky bitch had the audacity to have another guy over while I was in the house with my kids; looks like even when you think you're happy you're being stabbed in the back." John leaned forward again, smirking. "You got the info you need?" he asked, staring into Dean's eyes.

Dean swallowed hard. Sam knew that convincing him to comply with their father's wishes was going to be a job and a half. "Yes sir," he said, rising from the chair and throwing his father one last pleading look.

John waved at them. "Bye-bye you two! Guess I'll be saying hi to my boys from the afterlife pretty soon, so I'm glad you came when you did." He winked at the two of them, before turning and heading to the door at the back of the room, banging on it. Without the phones, Sam could not hear what he was saying, but if he knew his father, it was laced with profanities and insults directed at the guard outside.

Sam and Dean were silent as they walked back to the car. Wordlessly, Sam slipped the keys from his brother's hand, motioning him towards the passenger seat. Surprisingly, Dean did not protest, slipping in to the car and sitting quietly, face blank and pale.

"Dean, you know we have to do this," Sam said once they were safely on the road. "Dad doesn't want to go to trial; he said so himself. At least this way he gets to go out in a blaze of glory instead of hanging himself in his cell like some kind of haunted man."

"Shut it, Sam," Dean replied tersely, face grim. "I'm having enough trouble wrapping my head around this without you preaching at me."

Sam considered answering him with something scathing, but elected to keep his mouth shut. He could not blame his brother; Dean had always been their father's perfect little soldier, ready to kill and steal and cover tracks at the slightest command, never deviating from their father's plan. If Sam had to guess, he would bet that the search for their Dad was the first trip Dean had taken without the man, and now they would never travel together again. Sam, on the other hand, was sorry that his father was about to die, but knew damn well that he could take care of himself without the man. He had done so for the past four years, after all.

Sam pulled off onto a side road and followed it until he reached a field next to a patch of woods. "Seems like a decent place to work," he said. "I don't trust the hotel room."

Dean nodded grimly and hauled himself out of the Impala. Sam pulled open the trunk and began digging, looking for anything that he could think of to make explosives. "Well, it's not going to be easy to take the whole prison out, but we should have enough if we work smart," he determined finally, running a hand through his shaggy brown hair.

"Do you think there's any way to take out most of the prison but leave Dad's cell block?" Dean demanded, staring past the explosive materials scattered on the floor by the trees. "We could get him out, get him a new identity, maybe some plastic surgery so he won't be recognized—"

"Dean," Sam said firmly, cutting him off. "His fingerprints are on file. They have his DNA. We bust him out, it's only a matter of time before the cops find him again, and us with him. We don't have the resources to get him out of the country, so that's not an option. Even if we did, all his connections are here, and he'd just get himself arrested again."

"Jesus Sam, are you even going to try to save him?" Dean exploded, picking up a piece of pipe and hurling it at Sam, who ducked, letting the projectile soar harmlessly past his head.

"No," Sam replied coldly, kneeling down to start sorting out the materials they had. God, this was so screwed up. He had not even considered the possibility that their father might not want to be rescued, when they found him. "Dad made his wishes clear. You're the one who always said to listen to him no matter what, now shut up and listen. We are taking the whole place out, Dad with it, and I don't want to hear you bitching anymore about it, get me?"

"You—"

Sam rose, stretching to his full height so that he towered over his brother. He walked over to him, calmly, coldly, hands shaking with the urge to grab his brother by the throat and squeeze until he begged. He reached out and grabbed his jacket instead, yanking Dean forward until their chests were almost touching. "Do. You. Get. Me?" he asked, staring down at his older brother, whose face slackened, reacting to the familiar tactic.

"I get you," he mumbled, refusing to meet Sam's eyes. Satisfied, Sam released his hold on Dean's jacket and turned his attention back to the pile of soon to be explosives.

"Then let's get busy. We're going to make Dad's death one the country will never forget."

0o0o0o0o0

The streets were dark, quiet, and deserted as Sam and Dean drove up quietly, parking far enough away from the prison that the car would not be seen, but close enough that they could detonate the bombs from the safety of the Impala, eliminating risks to themselves. "This had better work," Dean muttered, shouldering a heavy backpack stuffed with explosives and as much C4 as they had been able to lift from a nearby demolition site, carefully stalking the place until the workers went on break. "If we get caught or someone calls a bomb squad in time—"

"Don't think about it," as Sam's answer. Dean scowled at his brother, annoyed with his nonchalance. He followed Sam to the back fence of the prison. "You be ready to shoot the guards if they see me," he ordered, pulling two strips of leather out of his pocket and wrapping his hands tightly. He rubbed them together and jumped a few times, loosening his muscles. "All right," he said, eyeing the ten foot tall chain-link fence, topped with particularly nasty looking barbed wire. "If I get this done without getting caught, I'm shooting the guards and going out the front gate," he muttered, glaring at the obstacle. He took a deep breath, steeling himself for pain. "All right. Give me a boost," he ordered, lifting his leg demandingly.

Sam cupped his hands under Dean's boot and lifted as Dean jumped. Dean reached out and grabbed, barbed wire biting through the protective leather of his hand-wraps. "Son of a bitch!" Dean cursed, vaulting over the fence and releasing his grip in record time. He landed none too lightly on the dusty ground of the prison yard caught the second bag of C4 that Sam threw at him, grunting at the impact. He bolted, dashing to the building for cover, just in case the guards had heard him. He was going to have to work quickly.

Dean made it halfway around the building before he heard the tromp of boots behind him. He froze for a second, and the spun around, wrenching his gun out of its holster as he did so. "Howdy, officer," he said with a smile, pulling the trigger before the man could reach his.

Well, they definitely knew someone was here by now. Dean worked as quickly as he could, sweat beading around his forehead as he stuck the C4 and home-made bombs in as hidden of locations as he could find. It was a good thing that they looked like junk, and that the guards would probably be looking for him and not explosives, but it was still troubling—if they found the bombs, the whole operation was off. He planted the last one around the perimeter and bolted, sprinting towards the gate, pulling out his phone and speed-dialing Sam. "No time to get to the car. Blow it!" he shouted.

"Dean, you'll—"

"No names! And now!" he ordered, rushing at the closing gates. Two shots went off and the guards dropped; Dean mentally thanked Sam, breezing through the half-shut gates and tearing around the corner towards the parked car.

He was far enough away that the heat from the explosion did not hit him, but he still staggered as the ground beneath him rolled from the impact. Only two blocks—

Sam pulled the car around so fast that he nearly hit Dean. "Get in!" he shouted, flinging open the passenger door. Dean leapt in and slammed the door shut, turning around to look at his handiwork as soon as the door was closed.

Sam was driving too fast for him to get a good look, but the glimpse he caught was beautiful. Dean could not have set up a better chain reaction if he had had all the time and materials in the world, and an empty building to work with. The entire prison had collapsed in on itself, and fires burned in several places, sending smoke pluming into the sky. "No way anyone survived that," he breathed, mentally patting himself on the back. "How did you manage to shoot the guards and blow the place so quickly?" he asked, staring at his brother in wonder.

"I brought the car around when I heard the first shot," Sam said, shrugging. "Figured the jig was up and you'd have a better chance of getting out alive if I had the car ready and waiting. Glad I did too. It would have sucked to lose you as well as Dad in there.

That counted for affection amongst the Winchesters. "Aw, Sammy, you're breaking my heart with your sweetness," Dean cooed dramatically, throwing himself across the seat at his brother, making Sam swerve into the mercifully empty lane beside them.

"I'll break it with my gun if you don't get off me!" he shouted, shoving Dean away with one arm, but the shine of affection in his eyes betrayed his words. "Okay, on a serious note, we're not stopping until we can get to Bobby's and have some new registration records drawn up to match our new license plates. I'm not taking any chances with this. Rest up, Dean, you've got the next driving shift."

"Yeah, yeah," Dean grumbled, leaning back the passenger seat until it was nearly flat. _Don't think about how you just killed Dad. _"Wake me when you get tired and pissy, okay princess?"

"Fuck you."

That drew a small smile from Dean. He shoved his jacket under his head and curled up, letting the familiar motion of the Impala slowly lull him to sleep.

0o0o0o0o0

Jimmy was almost asleep when he got the call. He bolted to his feet, away from semi-dreams of a strange looking man who called him 'Castiel' and touched his forehead. He hated that dream; it was a recurring vision that always made him feel dreadfully trapped and uncomfortable in his own skin. Shaking his head, trying to slough off the feeling, he picked up his phone. "Henriksen?" he asked blearily. "What happened?"

"Looks like you were right, Novak." Henriksen's tense voice rapped out loudly from the speaker. Castiel winced and moved the phone slightly away from his ear. "Either that or we've got a hell of a lot of strange coincidences going on. A prison in west Kentucky just blew up, and our guys found traces of C4 all around the site."

Jimmy grabbed his coat off the floor beside his bed and pulled it on over his pajamas. "We get the call?" he demanded, jamming his bare feet into his work shoes by the door.

"Yeah, we got the call all right. Whoever did this was going for the kill. No survivors," his partner said, voice grim, "not even the prisoners. Hell, half of them aren't even going to be identifiable by their dental records, that's how bad this set-up was."

"I don't understand," Jimmy said, sprinting down the stairs to the bottom floor of his house, stopping to grab the ready-bag he always kept packed by the door. "Why would they make the effort to sneak into the prison if they were just going to blow it up?"

"Leave that to the behaviorists, Novak," Henriksen advised. "Personally, I don't give a damn why this guy did it, just that he did it, and a lot of people are dead." He exhaled loudly; Jimmy ignored the annoying noise, tossing his bag into his work car and climbing in. "I'll meet you at headquarters and brief you before we head out, but from what I understand there's not much to tell. If these are the guys you heard a few days ago, they're damn good. If it's not, I want to know what the hell is so interesting about Kentucky's prisons."

"You and me both," Jimmy replied, backing out of his driveway as quickly as he dared and turning on the emergency lights of his car. He sped out of the neighborhood, headed straight for the city, driving faster than he thought he had ever driven before. It still felt so slow. What happened to being able to zip in and out of places at the speed of light?

Jimmy frowned as he realized where his mind was. He could not allow himself to be taunted by the fancies and delusions that lingered at the back of his mind. He supposed he must have been a rather imaginative person before whatever had brought on his amnesia, for all the thoughts that constantly came to the forefront of his mind, unbidden. He shoved the idea down and focused on driving, surpassing the speed limit by a reckless percentage.

It still would have been faster to fly.

0o0o0o0o0

"So here's what we've got, the whole folder of it." Henriksen slapped a single, lonely folder onto the table, scowling in disgust at the lack of information. "We've got a list of prisoners, a list of guards on duty, a record of everyone who visited or was in the prison in the last ten years, and not much else. A demolitions crew in the area just happened to lose their C4 the night of the explosion, so we'll look into people on the crew as well. They've got the remains of the explosives used to set off the C4 in the office in Kentucky, and some of their analysts are confirming that it did come from the demo crew, but apart from that, we've got jack-squat." Henriksen glanced up at Jimmy. "Looks like this is gonna be nothing but one long grind. Our flight leaves in an hour if you want to get familiar with the names."

"Yes, that sounds like a good plan," Jimmy answered, sitting down and picking up the file. It really was scant on information. It took him much less than an hour to make his way down each list, retaining as much of the information as he could in his head. "Have you spoken to the police about where we should start when we get there?" he asked, cocking his head at Henriksen curiously.

"Yeah, they're taking care of making the rounds of the surrounding neighborhoods. They want us to start tracking down the visitors, starting with the most recent, and question them. Guess they want us to hit the friends and families of the deceased as well, see if they had any smart-cookie enemies who could have pulled off a stunt like this." Jimmy nodded; it was about what he had expected. "My guess is that if someone was after a prisoner or a guard, they'd be a new inmate or a recent hire, otherwise this would have happened already," Henriksen continued, shaking his head. "You know, I've handled explosions before, but nothing on this scale, not yet. Whoever did this—it wasn't their first time blowing up a building, I'll bet."

"Well, we can't know that for certain," Jimmy replied practically, closing the folder of names. "We should wait outside for the plane. There's really not much else to do in here."

"Yeah, you're probably right," Henriksen agreed, picking his jacket up off of the chair where he had tossed it. "Let's go meet the plane, and sleep on it. We're going to be up to our ears in questionings and paperwork once we get out there."

Jimmy silently picked up his emergency bag and lead the way outside, climbing into the backseat of the car prepared to take the two of them to the runway. He knew this case was important; if the perpetrator had blown up a prison, who knew what else he or she was capable of doing?

Still, Jimmy could not shake the feeling inside him that screamed that this was a terrible plan, to run and hide and never look back. He hoped that he and Henriksen could be helpful to the investigation, but a small, cowardly part of him hoped that he would not have to meet the perpetrators face to face. There was a niggling sense in the back of his brain, one that told him that a run-in with the perpetrators would leave him begging for death.


	5. Bloodlust and Punishment

A/N: Murder, Beatings, incest, dubious consent. If the last two weren't evidence enough, this chapter contains a graphic sex scene. You have been warned. Sorry to take so long to update, I recently got a full time office job, which is a bitch of a thing to keep up with. The story's about 15 chapters ahead on my Archive Of Our Own account if you want to read further.

* * *

When the rush of the successful bombing had worn off, Dean found it hard to concentrate. The idea that he had killed his own father kept running through his head, worrying at his psyche, popping up through every attempt he made to distract himself. His father had been his lifeline, the one constant in his life after Sam had left—no, not left, _abandoned_—the family for college. Oh, he tried to forget—he restocked their explosives materials, replenished their collection of ammo, fine-tuned the Impala and cleaned and waxed her until his hands were raw, even tried sitting on Bobby's couch watching mindless cartoons until the man was fed up with his antics and threw him out to "find a distraction and grow up, you idjit." Nothing seemed to help. Dean growled, walking along the perimeter of Bobby's property, kicking at the few rocks that he had not already sent skittering out of range. Maybe he could sweet-talk Bobby into letting him work on some of the busted, rusted old cars in his lot. True, the man had not seemed very receptive towards allowing Dean to touch the cars when he first arrived, a shaking, grieving mess, but it had been almost two weeks! Maybe Bobby would change his mind if it kept Dean from filling up the house with Ren and Stimpy.

The footsteps behind him were too far apart to be Bobby's. "What do you want, Sam?" Dean asked, not bothering to turn around. He had barely spoken a word to his brother since the adrenaline rush of the bombing had worn off. Sure, he had been the one to place the C4, but Sam was the one who had pressed the issue of honoring their father's wishes—of murdering him. Dad hadn't been a person, he had been Dad! His life had mattered where others had not, and Dean had killed him like he was just any other person, and if he was pushing the blame off onto Sam, well, he figured that he owed himself that comfort, at least.

"Stop avoiding me." Sam's words were quick, spoken in a no-nonsense tone. "Look, I get it. You blame me for Dad's death. Yeah, I'll admit, I was the one who said we should blow the place, but damnit, he asked us to! Now man the fuck up, we're going on a spree."

Dean stopped and shot Sam an incredulous look. "We're supposed to lay low until this blows over," he said accusingly, glaring at Sam. "I don't know about you, but I saw a report on the prison just two nights ago on the news. They've got the FBI after us man! Now's not the time to go on a spree!"

"Yeah, well, tough," Sam said, folding his arms over his lean, muscular chest. "Dean. You've got to stop wasting away around here. You're killing yourself, and I meant it when I said that I don't want you dead. You, Bobby—you guys and the Roadhouse crew are the only people I want to let live, and you're doing a damn good job trying to thwart me from keeping you alive. I've already stolen two fucking cars from several cities over, which I'd guess you didn't notice while you were off moping and watching cartoons like a fucking seven year old who got a blue bike instead of a red one for his birthday."

"Your metaphors suck," Dean muttered half-heartedly.

"Similies."

"Bitch."

"Jerk."

Dean sighed. Damnit, Sam was too good at winning him over when he tried. He had to admit that a spree sounded like a fantastic idea at the moment. That would be just the thing to clear his mind and get his head back where it belonged—playing with fire and dancing around the law. "Fine, we can go on a spree," he grumbled, unwilling to let Sam win too easily. "Got anywhere specific in mind, or are we just pulling up to a random gas station?"

Sam grinned, eyes lighting up with a dark glint. "Better get your ski mask, brother," he advised, unable to keep the excitement out of his voice. "We're gonna hit Hogan's."

"Hogan's Hot House?" Dean said with disbelief. "You want to shoot up Dad's favorite restaurant."

Sam shrugged. "Dad's never going to eat there again. Besides, it would be a great tribute to his memory to go to his favorite places and wipe out all the people who are still there enjoying it when he can't, don't you think?"

Dean chewed the inside of his cheek for a moment. Sam had a point. Their dad would probably have delighted in knowing that the first kill they made after they blew up the prison and killed him was a tribute to his memory at one of his favorite places in the world. "Okay, you've got me convinced," he said, shrugging. "You're right about the ski masks, though. Too many people there know our faces." He scowled. "Man, I'm gonna need to put lifts in my shoes too, aren't I?" he asked, grimacing.

"Suck it up. Makes me look shorter and us both look closer in height," Sam said, smirking. "So, here's the plan. We're both going to put on non-descript clothing and wear ski-masks. We're going to drive the cars I took separately out to the next town over, and then take one to shoot the place up. When we've finished, we'll take that car, go back to the other car, take both cars over to the next town, and then take the car we left back to Bobby's. Then we'll use the Impala to separate again and ditch that car a few towns over in the other direction."

"So in other words, 'use the bathroom now Dean, we're going to be driving all day.' Yeah, I see how that is Sammy." Dean made a face at him, but knew that his amusement showed through in his eyes. "Fine, but I lead. You always run red lights when you make me follow."

"Lies and slander," Sam retorted, heading back to the house. Dean followed him into the guest room, where Sam had taken the liberty of laying out two black, long-sleeved shirts and two pairs of dark sweatpants that Dean had never seen before.

"You go thrift shopping?" he asked, stripping down to his boxers and settling on one of the shirts. He pulled it over his head and slid the sweatpants over his narrow hips, before kneeling to look under the bed for his shoe lifts.

"Yeah, shopping. We'll go with that," Sam replied, stripping off his own clothing, his torso several shades paler than his arms, evidence to the amount of time he had spent outside looking for those cars, Dean guessed. The shirt sleeves did not quite touch his wrists, and the sweatpants showed just a little much ankle, but with a ski mask, the effect would be suitably intimidating. Dean shook his head; other people were so easy to frighten, if black clothing and a covered face could scare them before a gun was even drawn.

With the shoe lifts placed in his thick black boots, Dean nearly matched Sam in height. His brother pulled on boots of his own and tossed a ski-mask at Dean, who caught it easily. "Let's get the automatics from the car and get going," he said, grinning at his little brother.

Dean had to cram himself into the cramped little yellow Volvo, a tight fit even with the seat shoved all the way back. "Damnit Sam, couldn't have picked a real car?" he muttered, fumbling to reach the car's controls. He guided the rickety little thing off of Bobby's property and sped off down the open road, the feeling not nearly as fine and comfortable as it would have been had he been in the Impala, an unfortunately distinctive car.

It was an hour's drive to the town closest to the restaurant. Dean parked the car in an abandoned back lot—praise his father for having taught him to spot abandoned but unobtrusive parking places—and exited the car, stretching gratefully. He did not pull his automatic out of the car just yet—that would be difficult to explain if anyone walked by, and he would rather not waste bullets on some random passerby, who was not guaranteed to get close enough for him to snap his or her neck.

Sam pulled in behind him a moment later, perfectly ordinary and inconspicuous in a beige colored sedan—the type of car that no one would give a second glance to on the road. Dean glanced around, and then grabbed his gun, slamming and locking the door to the Volvo and sliding into the passenger's seat of Sam's vehicle. "I'll have your ass for giving me such a cramped piece of shit car," he muttered, glaring at his brother and slipping his gun under a casually placed tarp on the floor of the backseat of the car, next to Sam's. "If these go off while you're driving, that's not all I'll have," he warned.

"They won't go off," Sam replied casually, driving nonchalantly out of the old lot, merging seamlessly back onto the road. Dean shook his head, casting the occasional glance back at the weapons.

The drive seemed to drag on for hours, even though Dean knew it could not have lasted longer than forty-five minutes. He was tense, jittery—he had not pulled off a kill this risky in years, and never without his father by his side, directing him and covering for him. Sam was good and all, but he got too caught up in the killing to actually be of any help in keeping a look-out for anyone who might slip away, or come in behind them. Dean shook his head, steeling his nerves. Dad was gone, and there was no bringing him back; it was time to honor his memory and prove that he could handle himself without his father.

Sam parked right up against the building and ducked down to roll his ski mask over his face. Dean followed suit, and reached back to the backseat to grab his gun, hard and comforting in his hand. "Ready to go shoot some pretentious sons of bitches?" he asked, watching as Sam reached back to pick up his own gun, long torso arching elegantly with the movement.

"Always am," Sam replied, positively cheerful.

"Awesome. Remember to watch your back, and mine too. Don't want anything getting out of hand," he replied, exiting the car and slamming the door behind him, Sam following closely behind him as he strode powerfully to the door of the restaurant.

Dean threw out an arm, directing his brother to stop, and kicked open the door theatrically. "Everyone up!" he shouted into the single room of the cheap diner, striding in, gun at the ready. Sam followed, arms clearly tense under his shirt—eagerness, no doubt. Dean took a moment to admire the shock and terror that graced every face in the suddenly silent room. "I am not fucking joking, everyone stand the fuck up!" he roared, laughing inwardly at the shrieks and whimpers that came from several of the customers, most of whom stumbled to their feet. Dean grinned, savoring the rush of power that coursed through his body. Gun still trained on the diners, he jerked his head at Sam. "Round them up into the kitchen," he ordered, advancing on the few diners who remained stubbornly in their seats. "Last warning. Stand the fuck up or I start shooting," he ordered, as Sam shouted and gestured the terrified crowd into the kitchen area.

"No," an old woman said stubbornly, her accented voice regal and stern. Dean's head snapped around; this crazy broad thought that there was something to be gained in defying him? "I didn't come all the way to this country to be ordered about by a bully with—"

Dean opened fire, gunning down the old woman and the defiant customers still sitting near her. The others shrieked and stood, some running to join the group being herded into the kitchen, others struggling to reach the back door. Dean casually blew through the would-be escapees, marveling at the power of automatic weapons. Black market connections had some damn good purposes; he would have to find an excuse to send flowers to the Roadhouse soon. The stragglers dead, Dean took a moment to take in the scene before heading to the kitchen to meet up with Sam.

A good thirty customers and ten staff members stood, trembling in the kitchen under Sam's predatory gaze. "How do you want to handle this?" his younger brother asked eagerly, hands shaking with anticipation. "Just go for it, or what?"

"I think we can show a little bit of mercy," Dean grinned, eyes lighting on a young woman who stood at the back, clutching a child barely out of infancy to her chest. "Hey there princess, how about you hand over the kid?" he called, shoving people out of the way and striding over to the woman. "Don't want your spawn getting caught up in anything messy now, do you?"

The young woman whimpered, her dark brown eyes wide, terrified. "Please," she whispered, tightening her grip on the child, who fussed at the pressure. "Please, please don't hurt her, she's not even one—"

Dean backhanded the woman, who fell limply to the ground. "Hand over the kid, sweetheart. I don't like having to ask you twice," he growled, wrenching the child out of her arms. He strode back over to Sam, and nodded at his brother. "All yours. I'll pick up the stragglers." He caught the flash of delight in Sam's eyes before heading out of the room, placing the child on the table as Sam opened fire, the screams of the dying prisoners echoing throughout the confined space.

Dean knew that it would be only moments before the police arrived; he would have to work quickly. He grabbed a sharpie from the hostess's counter and quickly scrawled "we showed mercy" on the baby's forehead, taking care to write in sloppy cursive very different from his ordinary handwriting. "Pack it up, we've got two minutes tops to get out of here!" he shouted at Sam as the gunfire ended. He strode out to the car and slammed the door, his brother arriving quickly behind him. Sam tossed his gun into the back and Dean followed suit, leaning over to cover the weapons with a tarp as Sam shrugged on a bright jacket and tossed his ski mask in the back. Dean pulled his own mask off and covered the masks with the weapons, before shrugging on a bright jacket of his own, pleased that Sam had thought that far ahead—he certainly had not. Boots came off as Sam drove, followed by sweatpants that he replaced with acid-washed jeans, slightly too long for him. He buried the sweats with the guns and went to work lacing his boots up again.

"We did good back there," Sam crowed, speeding onto the highway. "Either no one in the area thought to call the cops, or their police force needs to get their ass in gear. I didn't even hear sirens as we were leaving, much less before!"

"Yeah, well, still have to be pretty careful for the time being," Dean said, glancing out the back window. It did not look like they were being followed, but it would still be a good idea to check periodically. "Man, I'm starving. Let's finish the business of ditching these cars and get back to Bobby's."

"Always so practical," Sam laughed, throwing his brother a mocking glance before turning his attention back to the road. "Take some time to live a little! Enjoy the moment!"

The words snapped something inside of Dean. "Practical? Enjoy the moment? Don't get me started, Sam," he growled, shoving his hands into the pockets of his jacket.

"Jesus, what's up your ass?" Sam asked, merging over a lane to speed past the driver in front of them.

"We will have this conversation back at Bobby's," Dean replied firmly, "after I have eaten and we can sit down like civilized adults and have this talk. Right now, shut up and let me re-live shooting those bitches who tried to escape."

"Anything for my big brother," Sam said with a shrug, falling silent and focusing on the road.

It was several hours before they had properly hidden the cars, and another hour or so before they got back to Bobby's. The man asked mercifully few questions, choosing to focus mostly on feeding them and gruffly commenting that Dean seemed much better for their little excursion. Dean was silent; he would not deny that the tribute to their father had felt fantastic, had been one hell of an adrenaline rush, but there were some things that he needed to discuss with Sam before he felt that he could really move on. Old wounds needed attention, and he fully intended to take that attention out of Sam's ass, for all the transgressions he had made and now seemed to think he could just put aside.

Bobby seemed to realize that the two brothers needed space to work things out. "I'm going into town for a drink or ten," he said as the boys finished eating, placing his own bowl and spoon by the edge of the sink. "Do the dishes, earn your keep, and pick me up from the bar if I call you plastered, got it?"

"Course, Bobby," Sam replied, rising and placing his own dishes in the sink, starting the water as he searched for a sponge.

Bobby grunted in response. "You idjits break anything and I'll open a can of whoop-ass on both of you. If I'm not back by three you can assume that I need you to come down to the station and pay my bail."

"Emergency bail money's in the envelope under your pillow, I know," Dean said, finishing his last few bites of stew and joining Sam at the sink.

Sam was silent as they washed the dishes. Dean was both grateful for the silence and angry; he wanted his brother to say something, start the conversation, spare him the trouble of bringing up his sudden burst of anger in the car, but instead Sam quietly stood over the sink, scrubbing remnants of stew from the pot like a proper little domestic college boy.

Dean couldn't take it. When Sam had put the last dish away, Dean grabbed him by the collar, spinning him around and slamming his back into the counter-top. "You want to explain where the hell you get off telling me to stop being practical and enjoy the moment?" he snarled, shaking Sam roughly. "You want to explain it? Because last time I checked, you decided to be practical and quit enjoying yourself by walking out on this family so you could go prance around being a good little law-bitch! Where the hell do you get off telling me to quit being careful when you were so scared for your dumb ass that you abandoned us? What the hell?"

"Dude!" Sam spread his arms widely, annoyance spreading across his strong features. Dean felt the boiling urge to slap the look of indignation from his brother's face. "I thought we were past this. I missed my interview for law school for this family. I gave up everything helping you look for Dad and then helping you get over yourself when you decided to just give up and go into a funk! I ruined every chance I ever had at practical or normal for this family—don't you tell me I walked out on you guys!"

Furiously, Dean gave into his urge and slapped him. "No, that's exactly what you did!" Dean screamed, seizing Sam and bodily throwing him to the floor, where he lay, splayed out gracefully, seemingly boneless with the lack of fight he gave Dean. It was infuriating, the way he just took Dean's punishment without fighting back. "It's your fault Dad's dead! Your fault! He always listened to you best, he always cared about you the most, and if he'd still had you around he would never have used his real identity, he'd have taken more care about not getting caught, hell he'd probably even have had you there as back-up to make sure that damn security guard died and couldn't give a description of him!" He reared back and punched Sam, fist connecting hard with his cheekbone, bruising his knuckles in the process. "It's your fault! It's all your fault!" he raged, almost incoherent, dizzy from the fury and adrenaline. "You did this! Your fault! And you have the fucking balls to get on me for being practical when it was you being _practical _that left Dad open for the cops! You ruined this family! You might as well have killed him yourself!" His fist slammed into Sam's nose, letting loose a torrent of blood over Sam's face.

Sam spat blood from his mouth, the rich red liquid splattering over Dean's neck and jaw. "So what, you want revenge on me?" he growled, glaring up at Dean with murderous hazel eyes. "Then take it! Do it! Get it the fuck out of your system, then get the fuck over yourself and move on! Dad's dead from his own carelessness, and that's not on me!"

Dean seized Sam by the hair and raised his head, slamming it down hard on the tile floor. "You little bitch, you think you can just shove off all the responsibility you have in this?" he screamed, slamming his brother's head down again. Sam reached up and wrapped his hands around Dean's wrists, but Dean hung on, wrenching strands of hair from his brother's head. "Everything would have been fine if you" he slammed Sam's head into the tile "hadn't" and again "walked" Sam's eyes were sliding out of focus "out" was that blood in his brother's hair? "on" good, it was just the light "this" Sam's hair was slipping through his fingers "family!" He brought Sam's head down into the floor one more time, and his brother's eyes slid out of focus, dazed from the onslaught.

"Get up," he snarled, rolling off Sam and grabbing him by the collar, dragging him to his feet. "You have a fucking lesson to learn, and I'm not fucking up Bobby's kitchen when he's one of the only people who actually stuck with this damn family when we needed him."

"So, it's gonna be the old fashioned way, then?" Sam slurred, stumbling after Dean as his brother dragged him up the stairs and into the guest bedroom.

"Oh you wish it was only gonna be that," Dean growled, slamming the door to the bedroom behind them and locking it. He dropped Sam, who crumpled to the floor, and seized his braided leather belt from the corner. "I'll teach you what happens for running away from this family!" he hissed, crouching and ripping Sam's shirt off over his head, slamming him face first into the ground, exposing the long lines of muscle that ran elegantly down his back.

"Whatever helps you sleep at night," Sam replied, voice muffled by the worn carpet. "I'll give you a free pass on this one."

That made Dean's blood boil even hotter. He grabbed Sam by the hair and dragged him up, slamming him bent over on the bed. He stood back and raised the belt, bring it down hard and fast on Sam's back, the braided weave of the belt leaving a long, patterned stripe across Sam's back. Sam made no noise; infuriated, Dean lashed him again, and again, until his brother finally broke down and screamed. Encouraged, Dean brought the belt down on him until Sam was clutching at the bedspread, feebly scratching, trying in vain to pull himself away from Dean's punishment. "God, just get it over with already!" he screamed, his voice thick and barely comprehensible with pain.

"I don't owe you that," Dean snapped, bringing another blow down on his brother's back. Sam screamed and arched away from the pain, throwing his head back beautifully. Dean knew his brother and his tricks; he was purposefully going into begging, submissive mode in order to speed things along, get to the still unpleasant but ultimately less painful part of his punishment. Dean felt his blood rush through his veins, but no, he did not owe it to Sam to end this yet. "Whose fault is it that Dad is dead?" he shouted, bringing the belt down onto Sam's shoulders.

"Mine!" Sam screamed, his voice rough and scratchy from his cries.

"How is it your fault?"

"Because I left!" Tears were starting to leak out of Sam's eyes; as far as Dean could tell, they were real, brought on by pain rather than simple theatrics. Dean smirked bitterly; finally they were getting somewhere.

"Then tell me why I should stop?" he demanded. It was the final question; if Sam responded with some sort of pithy comeback, or half-assed reason, then he would keep going. This was about getting his rage out, after all, but even more importantly, it was about teaching Sam a lesson; leaving a family was as good as killing it, and Sam deserved everything he got and more for the death of their father.

Sam's breath hitched; he was making a valiant effort to not break down and sob from the pain, but Dean knew from experience that even the strongest man could only take so many lashes. "Because I've learned my lesson. I was wrong, I was wrong, it's my fault, and if you keep doing this it's going to start bleeding and get infected and I'll die too," he gasped, clutching feebly at the bed sheets.

Dean smirked, but there was no real satisfaction behind the expression. "Good enough," he said, his own voice hoarse from yelling. He grabbed Sam by a welt covered shoulder, producing a yelp from his younger brother as he dragged him off the bed and to his knees before Dean. "You know what comes next," Dean whispered, wrapping the belt around Sam's neck and wrenching it tight with one hand, undoing his pants with the other.

Sam opened his mouth to gasp for breath, struggling to bring air through constricted passages, and Dean plunged his crotch forward, trying to will himself into hardness. It was hardly a punishment if he simply shoved a soft penis into Sam's mouth, after all. He thought about his rage, his fury, his bloodlust; he thought about Sam, whipped skinless, smeared with the remains of a kill, blood dripping from his eyelashes, and he felt his own blood rush downwards, until finally he was hard enough to thrust into Sam's gasping mouth.

Dean did not bother allowing Sam to adjust or control his pace. He shoved forward, burying himself in Sam's mouth, hitting his gag reflex with abandon as he thrust hard and fast into his throat. The tightening of Sam's throat as he gagged and sputtered was a glorious feeling; Dean had nearly forgotten the sensation, after years without his brother. He pulled the belt tighter with one hand, fisting his free hand through Sam's hair, shoving Sam's face flush against his crotch.

Sam tapped at his leg frantically with one hand, signaling to Dean that he could not breathe. Dean tugged at the belt and thrust forward hard, prolonging his brother's panic, before dropping his hand from the belt. He slipped his hand tenderly over the back of Sam's neck and pulled back slightly for a brief moment before tightening his hands on his brother and thrusting forward again, pounding into the back of his throat as pressure built in his crotch. Sam's mouth was warm and gasping, his tongue flapping weakly around Dean's shaft. "You learn your lesson yet?" Dean growled, slamming into the back of Sam's throat, savoring the feeling. Saliva dripped from his brother's lips; he grasped feebly at Dean's jeans and clung, clearly struggling to breathe as Dean thrust into his mouth. "You're fucking nothing. Father killer. This is what you get," he snarled, pulling out to give Sam a moment to breathe—he wanted to punish him, to dominate him into submission and repentance, not to kill him—and stood, his penis twitching, throbbing unpleasantly with the pressure that built and seethed inside him. "You're my little bitch, Sam. This is your place."

Sam nodded weakly, reaching up to wipe the spit from his face. Dean grabbed his hand before he could touch his mouth. "I don't fucking thing so," he whispered, staring down at his brother. Sam's cheeks were flushed, a stark contrast to the rest of his face, which was pale from pain and exhaustion. Sweat had begun to build up on his forehead in a light sheen, slowly trickling down to his wide eyes, through which his shame and humiliation shone freely. Dean smiled grimly and grabbed Sam's jaw; Sam opened obediently, and Dean thrust into his mouth again, moaning as warmth enveloped his throbbing penis. He ached for release, but he couldn't finish yet—he had to firmly drive the lesson into Sam's mind. It was a treat, to see his brother on his knees, submissive and in pain, subject to Dean's whims, to punishment for his transgressions. Dean kept it teasing at first, lightly thrusting, letting Sam whirl his tongue around the fleshy head of Dean's penis. It was so good, so perfect, and Dean felt the desire to break his brother to pieces rise up in him, screaming in his mind and his body. Dean tightened his grip on Sam's hair and reached for the belt again, tugging lightly at it. He was rewarded with a muffled whimper as Sam's grip tightened on his jeans, hands shaking enough to move the fabric slightly. Dean smirked and pulled the belt tight, once again cutting off Sam's airways. Sam gagged around him, hands clutching desperately at his legs. Dean thrust forward into Sam's mouth, slamming repeatedly into the back of his throat until he felt Sam's grip begin to slacken. He dropped the belt and grabbed his brother's chin, forcing his head up slightly and halting his thrusts. He allowed Sam to gasp around him for a moment. "You going to finish this, or am I going to have to take it the hard way?" Dean asked, slurring.

Sam tightened his grip on Dean's jeans and reached up with his tongue to swirl around Dean's shaft. Dean kept his hand fisted in his brother's hair, but did not pull him forward, allowing Sam to suck, swirling his tongue around the head of Dean's penis until Dean thought that he was going to burst from the pressure building up inside of him. He groaned, and thrust forward one last time, his orgasm tearing through his body, spilling down the back of Sam's throat. He supposed Sam's skills as a former prostitute came in handy here; Sam swallowed without trouble and let his head drop as Dean pulled away.

Dean re-buttoned his pants and knelt down beside Sam. "Realize you got off lightly," he informed his brother, his voice hard.

"I know," Sam replied huskily. He looked up to meet Dean's eyes. "Was that enough for you, though? Can we move past this?"

Dean shrugged. "Well, you realized you fucked up and didn't fight me on this one, so yeah, I guess I can let you off lightly," he said. He did not think he had fully forgiven Sam, but the majority of his fury had left his system, and he did not think that he could beat or fuck the rest of it out into Sam. Dean was not so delusional; he knew that the rest of his anger would take time to fade. The punishment, at least, was a memory that he could fall back on when he felt like fury and grief would consume him again.

Sam nodded, swiping a hand across his mouth, grimacing as the welts on his back pulled. "You break the skin anywhere?" he asked, swallowing hard, probably in an attempt to soothe his throat.

"Oh all over the place, because I've never had to give a beating before," Dean replied sarcastically, rolling his eyes. "Come on, Sam. I get that it's been years, but I know how to dish out a little punishment without actually hurting you. Put your shirt on and get the hell over it, you're not going to die."

Sam flipped him off and pulled his shirt back over his head, grimacing as it brushed over welts. It was barely ten at night, but Dean was exhausted; he unlocked the door and stripped quickly down to his boxers, not bothering to so much as brush his teeth before he collapsed onto the bed and gave into his desire to sleep.


	6. Mistakes

A/N: As usual, lots of violence. Also contains sexual content-pretty much noncon in this chapter. Sorry for the delay-real life's a bitch.

* * *

Restaurants and gas stations, diners and houses, strangers on the streets and those who had the misfortune to go to the bank at the wrong time; each kill brought the same rush of adrenaline, the same high of power, and Sam thought that he was going to explode from the satisfaction that satiated his mind and his body. His back healed within a few weeks, and Dean's punishment had struck a chord, lit a fire in them both that they had buried when Sam had left for college. Transgressions and stupidity were met with punishment; frustrations transformed into battles for dominance, and though Sam's throat and backside existed in a constant state of irritation—as did Dean's, he made sure—he felt stronger and freer than he had ever been. Dean was right; college had been a stupid mistake. He belonged on the road, responsible to no one and nothing except his brother.

Law school was forgotten. Sam had everything he needed, everything he wanted, off of killing and stealing to his heart's content. He felt more alive than he had all four years of law school. He had taken a half-hearted dip back into his profession, but found that it was so much more satisfying to kill his clients and strip them of their possessions without pleasuring them first, and quickly moved from soliciting clients to simply grabbing and killing random men and women out looking for a good time—and sometimes those providing the good time. Sam was not picky, and felt no kinship towards the sex workers who prowled the streets and truck stops in every city they passed through.

He could have gone on forever, reveling in the anonymity that came with being a traveling murderer and thief, had Dean not fucked up and gotten himself caught.

Sam was fast asleep in the run down motel room he and Dean had gotten for the night when he got the call. He frowned at the unfamiliar number, but picked up anyways. "It's five in the morning. What," he growled into the speaker.

"It's me." Panic lay under the cold, steady tone Dean was putting on. "Got caught out by the side of the road. I'm in some serious shit and I need you to get me out."

Sam sat up, instantly alert. "How much is your bail?" he demanded, pulling a jacket on over his bare chest and jamming his feet into his boots without bothering with socks.

"200 thousand," Dean replied grimly, voice hard. "I don't think we have that much, do we? Can you get it?"

"Got a better idea," Sam said, stuffing his clothes into his overnight bag, swinging by the bathroom to snag his and Dean's toothbrushes before leaving. "Sit tight, you fuck-up. Help is coming in an unconventional form."

"Yeah, well, get me out of here quick," Dean grumbled, sighing heavily. "And no stunts like with Dad! I'm not desperate enough for that sort of help yet."

"Yeah, I get you," Sam said, stuffing his bag in the trunk of the Impala. "It's going to take me a few hours, so go make nice with your jail buddies and hope that none of them want that ass of yours."

Dean hung up without another word. Sam cursed, checking his watch; only a few minutes after five. It was an hour's drive to Roadhouse if he sped, and if he gave himself an hour to steal a car and an hour to get back, he would be back in town by eight. He placed his phone, underneath the tires of the Impala and backed up, his phone crunching under the pressure of the car. He would get all his necessary contacts from Dean's phone before destroying it, after he was able to pick up another device—that would come after rescuing his brother. He sped off towards the direction of the Roadhouse—he doubted that Ellen or Jo would have opened the bar so early in the morning, but Ash might be there working away at another all-night project.

Sam was in luck; the door was open when he arrived. "Ash!" he shouted, stomping into the building. "It's Sam. I need help!"

"Sam?" Ash's head popped out from behind a tucked away door, his trade-mark mullet greasy and mussed, evidence of several long nights with little sleep. "Shit, man, I thought you dropped out of this op! What do you need?"

"Dean's been arrested," Sam said briskly, without preamble. "Got any spare rides floating around, or do I need to steal one?"

Ash shook his head. "Naw, man, nothing on us right now. Police have been cracking down like mad and it's too risky. They won't be around this early though, they start trolling at noon and end at four or so. Don't worry, I've fucked with all the cameras and bugs they stuck in this place," Ash assured him. "But it's not a safe hideaway anymore, so we can't keep cars and weapons stocks and shit here."

"Know anywhere that's safe to get one this time of day?" Sam demanded.

Ash smirked. "Yeah, there's some used car dump a mile or so down the road. I'll drop you off there and you can take whatever you need." He squinted at Sam. "You and your bro still driving that nice, distinctive Impala?"

"Yes—"

"Gimme the keys," Ash said, holding out his hand. "I'll swing by Jo's. Her new boyfriend's a real champ, arms dealer who covers buying parts by running a mechanic's business. Fuck up your car a little bit and no one will question it being out in his lot."

"You're a real fucking miracle," Sam complimented him, fishing the keys from Ash's pocket and handing them over. "You'll take us to pick up the car when I've got Dean?"

"Yeah, not a problem," Ash said, leading Sam out to the lot. "Got a tarp?" he asked, moving to the front of the Impala.

Sam nodded. "Pop the trunk," he ordered, leading Ash around to the back. He dug out an old tarp, one that would not be missed, and handed it to Ash. Ash laid the material down in front of the car, lifted a booted foot, and kicked the front left headlight. The glass shattered onto the tarp, and Ash moved to perform the same action on the other headlight. "Bundle that up, dump it in the sewers," he advised, opening the driver's side door and climbing in. "Well come on, you want to go pick up a car or not?"

Wordlessly, Sam climbed into the passenger's seat. Ash did not bother with a seat-belt, so Sam did not bother with his own. It was a quick drive to the used car lot; Sam left the car and opened the trunk, stuffing his pockets with knives and ropes, arming himself well with automatics and semi-automatics, and attaching a few grenades to his belt for good measure. He slammed the trunk shut and saluted Ash. "Hey, don't get caught," Ash advised, before speeding off in the Impala.

Shaking his head, Sam spotted a used, rusty truck that had probably been red at some point in the middle of the lot. It was an old car, making it easy to pick the lock and hot-wire the vehicle. Sam sped off down the road, glancing at the beaten, nearly invisible clock. 6:30. Not bad on time, then. Now, first things first, to find a grade school in the area…

High schools started the earliest; Sam remembered rolling out of bed at 6 to get on the bus by 6:45, whenever he and Dean had . He drove, eyes searching, until at last he came to a high school with a full parking lot. Taft High, he read, driving into the parking lot and parking up next to one of the school's side doors. The stately brick building was new, no doubt the pride of the run-down community. Sam grinned; he would be honored to be the first gun-man in this school.

Gathering up his weapons, Sam made for the doors. It seemed that first bell had not started, they opened easily, unlocked. Sam marched in and cocked one of the three guns he had brought in with him, a semi-automatic, tame in contrast with the two automatics he carried slung around his shoulders. "Everyone, shut up if you want to live!" he roared into the crowded hall. The chatter died down instantly; sullen faces and cheerful expressions froze, stunned, as he took a few steps forward. Sam glanced around and seized a short, brace-faced girl, a freshman by the looks of her, by the neck of her T-shirt. The girl let out a short scream as he pulled her close to him. "Everyone, in that classroom," he ordered, firing a shot in the air. "You try to escape, she dies and I pick another one." There was a brief moment of mass hesitation. "Now!" Sam roared. Almost in unison, students and teachers alike hurried into the classroom, several hundred bodies jamming themselves into the confined space. It was a classroom on the inner portion of the hall—no windows, no closets, Sam was relieved to see. He shot the inner handle, and wrenched the remains off the door, closing it as the last teacher scurried in.

Sam's hostage was weeping soundlessly, tears rolling down her round face. Sam felt a rush of bloodlust, the desire to shoot her repeatedly until he ran out of rounds, but he knew that he could not kill her yet—not unless the police refused to cooperate with him. Instead, he dragged her by the neck of her shirt, following the generic layout of the school until he found the main office.

Dramatically, Sam kicked the door open, shoving the girl in ahead of him. The receptionist looked up, gum falling out of her mouth in shock at the sight of a gunman in her school, holding onto one of her students. "Save your whimpering," Sam ordered as the woman let out a frightened whine. "You are going to call up the police station, and you are going to put the phone on speaker. If you've got cameras, you are going to turn them on and allow the cops access to your system. You leave this room, you die. You help anyone else out, you die, and so does this." He shook the student for emphasis.

Hands shaking, the woman reached for the phone and hastily dialed 911, putting the phone on speaker. "911, what's your emergency?" a smooth voice on the other end said.

"Listen closely," Sam thundered, enunciating every syllable with care. "I have Taft High School. This place is mine. I've got more ammo than your entire police force combined, and all the students and teachers secured." He fired a shot into the air for emphasis; both the receptionist and the student hostage screamed and threw their hands up to their ears. "Put the police chief on the phone or this kid dies. What's your name?" he demanded of the round faced girl.

"A-Aya Yamamoto," she whispered, voice barely audible.

"Aaah, Aya Yamamoto, aren't you precious," Sam sneered, stumbling slightly over the unconventional name. "Police chief, now, or little miss Aya gets a pre-mature death via bullet in her skull."

There was some shuffling, and a woman's voice came through the phone. "This is police chief Sanders. What are your demands?" she asked, steady and deliberate.

"Your people arrested someone last night," Sam replied coldly. "You arrested a man last night out by the side of the road. I propose a trade; give him to me and let us go and these kids get to keep their lives. If you're that desperate to keep him, well, I have all the supplies I need to take out every one of these little bastards."

"We arrested several people last night by the side of the road," the chief answered calmly. "Could you describe the man you're looking for?"

Sam growled. "Upwards of six feet tall. White. Blonde. Green eyes. Freckles. Have him here in half an hour or I start shooting. One officer; no more. I see any officers without him, or more than one officer with him, I shoot them, and one kid for every extra. Got it?"

"We'll have him to you presently." The line went dead; Sam grinned, triumphant.

"Looks like you might just get to live, little miss Aya," he crooned, taking it on himself to torment the girl as a way to pass the time. "Aw, don't cry! I probably won't have to shoot you!" The girl only sobbed harder. Sam's eyes hardened and he placed the barrel of his gun against her throat. "I just told you to stop crying."

The girl gulped, trying to silence her sobs. Sam smiled cruelly. "There, isn't that better?" he asked, tilting the gun against her skin. "You like school, Aya? Have fun flitting around with your friends? Do your teachers and parents tell you that you have a bright future if you just work hard and apply yourself?"

Swallowing hard, the girl nodded once. "Awww, isn't it sweet how our loved ones lie?" Sam's face hardened. "You have no future, girl. You want to know something? I was top of my class. I went to Stanford. And yet here I am, in your little piss-pot of a school, holding a gun to your throat. That is true success, true power." He smiled, reaching out and patting her on the head, laughing as she flinched. "Maybe you'll grow up to be just like me. Now, wouldn't that be something?" he asked, snickering.

The front door swung open, and through the office window, Sam watched a young officer walk in, hand wrapped around Dean's bicep. Dean grinned cheerfully, waving at his brother. The officer held up his free hand, coming up to the office door when Sam motioned him forward. Sam opened the door and smiled tightly at the officer, who bristled with ill-concealed fury. "All right, you have what you want," the man spat bitterly. "Let the kids go."

Sam snorted. "Please. Do you think I'm that stupid?" he asked. "You are going to go and wait in your car. We are going to take several students with us, as insurance. We will let them go when we are satisfied that you're not following us. You will wait until we are out of sight, and only then will you enter the building to get the other students out. If I find anyone—anyone—following us, even if they are not police, even if they are police from another town, the kids die. You're going to have your hands full finding them, so I suggest you focus on that rather than searching for us." Sam smiled brightly at the officer. "Off you go! Go sit in the car and think about what happens when you touch those close to me!"

"You're a sick, sick man," the officer seethed, releasing Dean's arm and backing out of the office.

Sam ignored him, turning to Dean. "We'll talk about this later," he muttered, slapping his brother solidly. "Let's go. We'll take another couple kids with us as insurance. I have room for three in the back."

"Nice plan you had there," Dean said in answer, grinning, unfazed by the slap. Sam snorted and led him out of the room, still dragging Aya by her collar. He threw open the door to the crowded classroom. "All right, which two of you fine boys and girls want to take a ride with me and my brother?" he shouted into the room, which had frozen upon his appearance. "No one? Oh come on, do I have to start shooting everyone who doesn't volunteer?"

One of the teachers began to step forward. "No, not you," Sam said, training the gun on him. "Students only. Don't really feel like taking teachers out on a ride-along right now, eighteen and younger only!"

There was a moment's pause, and then a tall, dark skinned boy stepped forward, his rail thin body trembling. "That's one, can we get another volunteer? Another, or I start shooting!" Sam sang, casually letting the gun roam around the room.

A slightly pudgy girl clad in all black stepped forward, her face pale with fright under dyed blue hair. "Always can count on the alternative kids to step up to death," Sam said mockingly, gesturing for her to stand with the tall boy and Aya. "All right, not to fret, the police will be here soon to get your pitiful asses out!" he crowed, herding his three captives out of the room and locking the door. "You, keep a hold of these two. Sit with them in the back, and I'll keep miss Aya up in the front with me," he ordered Dean, shooting his brother a challenging glance.

They herded the kids into the car with little trouble, their hostages too frightened to disobey. Sam placed his automatics in the trunk, but kept the grenades and semi-automatic safely on his person as he climbed into the front seat. "I don't even know how to articulate how pissed I am with you," he growled, settling in and starting the car. "Really? Really! You went out without back-up? What the hell did they catch you doing?"

"It was an accident," Dean replied snappily. "I wasn't planning on killing anyone, but this asshole at the bar tried to cheat me out of the money I won at pool, so I lured him out and killed him. They caught me burying the body."

"At the side of the road?" Sam demanded furiously. "Jesus Dean, how fucking stupid can you possibly be?"

"Okay, I'm sorry! I fucked up, I get it! It's not like I had the car to find a suitable back lot!"

"Well, you know what happens when one of us fucks up," Sam snapped, livid. "But we've got to dump these first," he said, nodding at the students around them.

"How are we even going to pull this off?" Dean asked with trepidation. "The cops know what we look like now."

"Not we. Me. Doubt they paid two fucks attention to your face. And we're gonna have to go pretty damn far," Sam growled, speeding onto the open road. "Look for exits. Tell me when you see one that looks like it goes to a fairly deserted place."

"Got it," Dean said, leaning back, his arm brushing against the tall boy, who stiffened noticeably. Sam laughed harshly, driving until Dean pointed out the first promising exit. Sam drove onto the exit and followed the road until he reached a small, fairly deserted neighborhood.

"Watch them," Sam ordered, tossing the gun to Dean, who caught it. Sam got out of the car and dragged Aya across the seats, out through the driver's side door. "Make a noise and I will snap your throat," he warned, reaching into his pockets and pulling out a roll of twine. The girl whimpered, but was silent apart from that. Quickly, Sam bound her wrists behind her back and secured her to the speed limit sign at the edge of the road. He pulled his pocket knife out from the front of his jeans and sliced off the bottom half of her shirt, binding it around her eyes. "Pleasure to meet you. Try not to die of exposure," he offered, grinning, before hopping back into the car. "And now onto the next one!" he exclaimed. "None of you have had to die yet, so your chances are looking pretty good," he said by way of small talk. He drove for what felt like hours, though it only took half the time that it seemed, before he found another suitable town, where he left the other girl. Doubling back a bit, he headed northeast; it was dark before he found a town to leave the boy. Sam drove to the next town over, where he left the car parked in a resident's driveway as replacement for their comfortable minivan, which he and Dean climbed into silently. There was no question of going to Roadhouse to pick up the Impala tonight; Sam was exhausted. He drove, silent, as Dean sat awkwardly in the passenger's seat, apparently unwilling to start the conversation about how many ways he had screwed up.

Sam drove until they reached a seemingly deserted rural road. Several miles in, he pulled into what appeared to be a vacation house; at any rate, it was empty and quiet, devoid of neighbors who could call the police if Dean screamed too loud in response to his punishment. Then again, perhaps Sam would inflict some sort of silent punishment on him, just to minimize their chances of getting caught.

The place was nicer than any motel that Sam or Dean would have been able to afford; damn rich people and their money, throwing it away on houses they didn't even use. Were it not for the fact that their faces were doubtless plastered all over the news in several states, if not nationwide, Sam would have been determined detonate his grenades in the morning, or if they stayed longer, before they left; however, it looked like the streak was over. It was time for them to lay low and regroup, not to continue their spree. Sam sighed; and to think that it had been going so well until now.

"Dean," he started coldly, looking down at his brother. "You know you fucked up. Why don't you list off every way that you screwed things up for us?"

Dean glared at him. "I killed a guy without backup. I buried him in a stupid place. I got caught. What more do you want from me, Sam?" he demanded, spitting the words out vehemently.

"You killed a guy without backup," Sam said, grabbing a piece of paper and a pen, marking down a tally. "You didn't call me to help you dispose of the body. You buried him in a stupid place. You got caught. You let them arrest you. You dragged me in to pull your ass out of this. You got both of our faces out to the media as criminals." He shook his head in disgust. "That's seven transgressions. Go fill up the bathtub, Dean."

Dean's face went white. "Sammy—"

"Now," Sam snarled, backhanding him sharply. Neither of them had used this punishment since they were kids; it was terrifying, it was risky, the chance of an accident was much higher than a simple beating, or a hard fucking. As far as Sam was concerned, Dean had properly earned this one.

Face white and set, Dean looked around the house for a bathroom with a tub. Sam held his breath, hoping that the place had water. It did—damn rich people who could afford to keep water running in a house they were not using—and Dean slowly turned the cold tap onto full, before turning and giving Sam a pleading look. "Sammy—"

"On your knees," Sam said quietly, cutting his brother off. "You deserve this. You know how much you fucked up. Now don't fucking question me, or I'll double your sets."

Body tense and resolute, Dean knelt, stripping off his shirt. Sam whipped off his brother's belt, binding his arms to his body; he used his own belt to bind Dean's hands together behind his back. "Take a deep breath," Sam ordered as the bathtub filled steadily, menacingly. "One," he started, placing a knee on Dean's back and shoving his face into the water. "Two. Three. Four."

Sam counted to sixty and wrenched his brother's head out of the water. "Breathe!" he shouted, slamming Dean's head back in as he sputtered for breath. Sam counted to sixty again and pulled Dean out, again shouting "Breathe!" before shoving him back under. Only when all seven transgressions had received their minute did he pull Dean out for good and check his pulse, weak but still there. Dean coughed pitifully, a small stream of water spewing from his lips.

Sam did not bother to untie Dean. He hastily pulled his brother's pants down. "You fucked up good, Dean," he growled, seizing a cylindrical bottle of shampoo and lining it up between Dean's ass cheeks. He shoved, forcing the object in without preparation. Dean screamed, leaning forward and heaving up water into the bathtub, struggling to keep his head up out of the water. Sam reached forward and seized Dean's head by the hair, wrenching his neck back to keep his brother from drowning. "Apparently you can't be trusted by yourself anymore. So I'll make it so you can't even walk without my help!" He kneed Dean's backside, forcing the bottle in further. The sound of ripping flesh alerted him that Dean was bleeding, that he had succeeded in cutting him open from the inside. With his free hand, Sam hastily undid his pants, and then slid the bottle out of his brother. The sound of Dean's screams, the flow of his blood, the weak helplessness that his bonds and near-drowning incited—all of these combined left Sam ready, wanting, needing. He lined himself up and thrust into his brother, reveling in the feeling of torn flesh, slicked and ready with blood. "God, yes," he groaned as he ripped into Dean's already torn flesh, blood pooling around his shaft, trapped inside Dean's completely filled passage. Blood was the best lubricant; the sheer sensation of power that came with fucking into someone with their own life force was enough to nearly send Sam over the edge. He wrenched Dean's head back even further, pulling his brother up to his knees with the force of his grip, and pounded into him, soaking the bathmat and floor with Dean's blood. "Beg me to stop," he whispered, biting sharply into Dean's ear, gnawing at the cartilage until he finally broke the skin.

Dean groaned in response, shuddering against Sam's chest. "Please," he whispered hoarsely. "Please, no more Sammy, no more—"

Sam wrapped his free arm around Dean's torso, holding him tight against his chest, and released his hair, wrapping a large hand around his brother's mouth. "Yes more, but that was very good," he whispered, rocking back and forth lazily, his motions limited by the change in position. "But I'll give you a little breather, does that sound good? Like it gentle like this?"

Dean gasped, his arms struggling weakly at the belts that bound him. Sam whispered soothingly in his ear, nuzzling the side of his neck as he rocked slowly back and forth. Pleasure sparked through him as he moved, purposefully avoiding Dean's prostate—he could allow his brother a breather, but pleasure would destroy the punishment entirely. "You gonna fuck up again?"

Dean whimpered and shook his head, his short hair brushing against Sam's temple, his mouth opening slightly against Sam's hand. Sam groaned, and pulled out halfway. "Then get your legs in order and turn around," he ordered, pulling his hands away from Dean's body, slick with water and blood.

Dean cried out, voice weak and hoarse with pain. He struggled, shifting weakly to turn without pulling away from Sam—Sam grinned, knowing the pain his brother feared if he denied him. It was rare that he could put true terror onto Dean's face, but the occasions when he did were so sweet, every last one of them was seared into his memory. This moment could go to join them. With Dean situated facing him, legs shaking with the effort, face contorted with fear and pain, Sam could barely contain himself. His body screamed at him to come, to release and beat Dean bloody, but Sam stilled the urge, tenderly pushing Dean down so that the back of his neck rested on the edge of the bathtub. "You ready?" he asked, leering at Dean as he reached forward to stroke his twisted, bruised face.

Dean shook his head frantically, green eyes glassy with pain and exhaustion. Sam slipped a hand under Dean's head, cradling it gently, using his other hand to grip his brother's shoulder with bruising force. He squeezed Dean's shoulder, savoring his pitiful cry as he shoved forward, pounding into Dean's blood-slicked body. He panted, trying to think of words, of hateful, spiteful things that he could say to drill this lesson into his brother's brain, but his mind was blissfully blank, and the only thoughts he could hold onto for more than a fraction of a second were more, need, more, faster, more! He dug his nails into Dean's shoulder, tense limbs shaking with need as his brother flopped weakly beneath him.

With a victorious cry, Sam orgasmed, spilling into Dean's body, continuing to thrust away as he did so. "Fuck, he gasped, pulling out and dragging Dean backwards to the floor, glistening with water and sweat, his own blood matting into his hair. "Fuck. I almost hope you didn't learn your lesson," he mumbled, lying down next to his brother and kissing his bloody head.

Dean moaned softly in reply, before coughing up the last remains of the water in his lungs. "Sam, please," he rasped in a whisper. "Not that one again. I can't do the bathtub again, not ever, please."

Sam shushed him and kissed his neck tenderly. "No promises, Dean," he murmured, stroking the blood on his brother's face. "No promises. It's all on you. Don't fuck up this badly again, and I will never have to do anything like this to you again. You know you deserved everything you got.

Dean nodded weakly, unable to even lift his head off the floor. Sam smiled and rose to a crouch, undoing the belts from around his brother's body. "Come on, Dean. Let's get you cleaned up and off to bed. Don't you worry about clean-up, I've got it. We'll go get the Impala back tomorrow, and you can heal on the road."

Dean groaned in reply, weakly clutching at Sam as the taller man picked him up. Dean's face was beautiful, contorted with pain as it was, and Sam wished that he had a faster recovery time so that he could take his brother again—but no, no, he needed his rest and with the working over Sam had given him, that might well kill him. Sam shrugged, laying his brother down on the couch and heading back to the bathroom to scrub out the blood and burn the bathmat. Evidence erased, he wandered the house until he found a bedroom and collapsed on the bed, sated and satisfied. He had his brother back, the punishment had been a success, and while they were now constricted by a potentially federal investigation, he could live with the wait, he thought.


	7. Drugs and Disappearances

Plot. This is plot. Yay for plot.

* * *

Dean shifted in the passenger's seat, unable to find a comfortable position. He could stand, even walk on his own now, but he could only heal so quickly, and Sam's punishment had left him in a constant state of pain. The Impala was more comfortable than the work out truck, to be certain, but still, even while lying flat on his stomach, Dean had not had a pain free moment since Sam had ripped him open and nearly drowned him.

He thought that they were in New Mexico, but he wasn't certain. Motels were out of the question, as were gas stations and diners. When they needed gas, Sam siphoned it out of cars in people-free parking lots, never taking more than a gallon from any given tank—they needed to be inconspicuous, he said. When they ran low on food, he would break into grocery stores after hours and take what they needed. Sam had gotten them both new phones, courtesy of Bobby as an intermediary, and when he could they parked in lots that received faint wifi signals. Sam had been correct; the search for them was now federal, and they could not risk showing their faces to anyone who was not already a connection.

Sam had heard that Rufus, leader of a crime ring that John had worked with multiple times and Bobby contracted for when work got slow, had a safe house in Arizona, a place where they would be able to get haircuts and dye-jobs and learn the arts of using clothing and make-up to subtly change their appearances just enough that they could get by without being recognized. Dean had wanted to go straight there, but his brother had insisted that they drive around, taking their time and keeping the police off their tail. It was bullshit, Dean had thought, but the one time he had tried to articulate this to Sam, he had found himself gagged, unable to speak or breathe as Sam fucked his mouth in a show of dominance. Weakened from Sam's punishment, Dean knew that Sam could exert dominance over him for the time being, and grudgingly sank into the role as second in command, waiting for the day when he was well enough to take control back from his brother.

Sam glanced over at him from the driver's seat. "What do you think? Take it to the border, then head on into Arizona to meet up with Rufus?" he asked, though Dean knew it wasn't a question.

"Sounds good to me," Dean replied, looking out the window. It wasn't exactly what he wanted, but at least it was a start.

Sam grinned and drove, the open road stretching ahead of them, few cars on the road. It was hours, and nearly midnight, when he stopped at a vacant grocery store. "Back in a few!" he said cheerfully, kissing Dean on the forehead and leaving the car.

Dean groaned, leaning his seat back and stretching out. He hoped that Sam found a place to park the car soon so that he could stretch out in the backseat; in the meantime, this would have to do. He rolled onto his side and closed his eyes, intent on napping until Sam got back.

0o0o0o0o0

Dean cracked his eyes open; it was still dark, and for a moment he thought that he had simply dozed off for a moment, but a quick glance at his phone told him that it was nearly four in the morning. "What the hell?" he muttered, unbuckling his seatbelt and stepping out of the car on wobbly legs. He glanced around and shut the door, making his way across the parking lot. "Sam?" he called softly, peering through the cracked door of the deserted grocery store. He did not see Sam. "Damnit Sam, not funny," he muttered, pulling out his phone and dialing his brother's number.

The phone rang, rang, and went to voicemail. Dean stared in disbelief at his phone as Sam's voice called out his missed call message. "This is not fucking funny. Leaving me in the car for four hours is not funny. Get your ass out here now, or I swear I will kill you." Scowling, Dean hung up and moved into the store. It was dark and empty, as was to be expected—Dean was grateful that it was not one of those grocery stores that opened ridiculously early for the morning crowd, and thus stuffed itself with employees before the sun had risen.

"Come on, Sam, where are you," he muttered, shining his phone down the aisles, dimly illuminating shelves of food and drinks and toilet paper. There was no reply, or even any movement. Dean snarled, stalking over to the frozen foods section, when a the dim light of his phone cast a glint on a small object on the floor. He stopped, ice filling his veins. He knelt, picking up the brand new, black cell phone that lay on the gleaming white tiles, screen cracked but still readable. _1 missed call: D Win._

Dean stared at the phone disbelievingly. "No," he whispered, because it was impossible. Sam would never leave his phone voluntarily—too much incriminating evidence—but Sam was a Winchester, and he would not have allowed himself to be taken. Cops would not have posed a problem, and cops would have looked for Dean as well. In the front seat of his Baby, he had not been well hidden; they would have found him. Dean had no idea who could have taken Sam, but it was the only explanation.

Dean shoved his panic down, striding as quickly as he could back to the Impala. He would have to hotwire her, since Sam had left with the keys, but Dean was the one who had proofed her against hotwiring—he knew how to break his own system. He called Rufus on the way out to the car, scowling as his call went straight to voicemail. "Rufus? You'd better call me back and give me the directions to your place as soon as you get this. I'm on my way right now. Someone took Sam."

0o0o0o0o0

His head was pounding. That wasn't a good sign. Sam groaned, wishing that he could fall back into blissful unconsciousness, but the ache in his cramped back simply would not allow him to zone out back into sleep. He winced, sitting up as far as he was able—that was weird, why couldn't he sit up all the way?—and twisted as far as he could, removing the kinks from his stiff spine. He reached up to crack his neck, or rather tried; his hands met a strange resistance, as though bound—

Sam's eyes shot open as his last memory came flooding back. "Fuck!" he shouted, his eyes snapping open. He had been in the grocery store, stuffing his pockets with canned goods, almost ready to move on to dry food, when someone had come up behind him and stabbed him in the neck—it had to have been a needle, although it felt like a knife in Sam's memory. He twisted, straining his eyes in the dim light. Wrists bound to the arms of a chair with zip ties, twine gripping his forearms to the back of the chair, leather straps at three points around his torso, ankles cuffed to the legs of the chair, calves lined with assorted ropes and strings and belts. Sam struggled, trying to pull the chair up off the floor, but it seemed to be bolted to the wall. Growling, Sam wrenched at his bonds, but whoever had tied them clearly knew what they were doing. Sam could not have better secured a prisoner with just these materials himself; this was no vigilante or wayward police officer. No, this was the work of a professional—either a bounty hunter, or a killer like himself.

Sam took a deep breath and weighed his options. He could play the role of the meek and cooperative prisoner, bargaining with his captors. He could act as the confused, innocent man—well, that one was out of the question. He could bluster and threaten and fight back, but that was likely to get him killed. Or he could simply be honest, cooperating when it suited him and fighting back when he was able. The last option was definitely the most attractive. Sam steeled himself for pain and slammed his head back into the wall. "Hey!" he shouted, voice surprisingly clear, considering he had just awoken from a drugged stupor. "Congratulations! You caught me! Now tell me what you want from me!"

To his surprise, the door opened. Sam caught a glimpse of his surroundings—he was in a one roomed shack situated in what appeared to be a complex of similar buildings—before the door shut. He grimaced at the darkness, and then, much to his surprise, the light flicked on, revealing his captor.

"Well, well, well," the surprisingly attractive brunette woman said, walking over to Sam slowly, even seductively. Sam swallowed hard; he had been expecting a bruiser, a tough, hardened criminal with guns and bulging muscles. Instead, his captor was slender, even delicate looking, her pretty features unblemished by fighting, her long hair down, easy to grab and use as a hand-hold. Had Sam not been tied so securely, he would most likely have been able to take her down in less than a second. "The infamous Sam Winchester. Not that the media has your name yet, but hey, we've got sources the media would cream themselves to get." An organization—that made sense, then. No way this petite little model of a woman would have been able to take him down on her own. "And here you are, playing guest with us. This is a fortunate turn of events."

"What do you want with me?" Sam snapped, jerking at his bindings.

"Not very polite, are you?" the woman asked, raising her eyebrows disapprovingly at him. "You might want to change that. My name is Ruby, and I am the person who is going to advocate for giving you a pleasant fate—if you behave yourself." She walked forward, reaching out to run a hand through Sam's hair. It took all of Sam's willpower to not jerk away from her touch. "Better," the woman said, clearly pleased.

"You are currently the property of a small, family friendly organization," Ruby informed him, as she continued to caress his hair and face. "I think you'll like it here, once you get used to it. Not quite up your alley, but I think we can find some use for you in security and taking on hits. You see, we're a fun little group that thinks it's just a shame that in this so-called land of the free, people can't even be free to choose their own escape routes. We do a little under-the-table business here and there to try to alleviate that issue." She smiled down at Sam with mirthless eyes. "The dealer your brother used to go through is one of ours. Oh, what a lovely boy he was. He's in prison now, but we just might get him back if you don't behave."

"So you're part of a drug cartel," Sam said slowly, deliberately.

"I prefer to think of us as people who distribute desirable goods and services to people who choose them as an escape route, much the way you and your brother used to do before you could get your hands on alcohol. A business, for the most part. But I suppose that if you want to call us a drug cartel, you'd be right up there with the dear old United States government." Ruby shook her head scornfully. "But you're not against drugs, now, are you Sam? Some people kill, some people drink, and some people live for their next hit. You've done all three, after all."

Sam shrugged. "I don't care who does drugs. We're all going to die eventually, might as well enjoy the ride," he replied carefully, not taking his eyes off the woman. What sort of role could a helpless looking female like Ruby play in a drug-running operation? She didn't have the muscle to move the goods, or the look that would lead people to ask her for drugs in the first place. Frustrated, Sam sighed, relaxing back into the chair, his arms sore from pulling at his bonds. "So what do you want with me, again?"

Ruby's smile widened. "Now that, Sam, depends on your behavior over these next few days," she said pleasantly. "If you're good, we'll make you a permanent part of our team. Run supplies, guard the camp, take out people who try to run out on us, or who skip paying what they owe. Of course, if you don't behave yourself, we've got some people in prison that we'd love to get back, and I think the government would be pretty interested in letting a few low-profile drug dealers go in order to bag the infamous Taft High School shooter."

"Oh, that's what they're calling me now?" Sam asked, unimpressed. "Stupid. I didn't even shoot anyone that time."

"No, but you know the press, now, don't you? Oh, you've been made out to be a bloodthirsty child-killer. And it's not even really a lie, now, is it?" Ruby purred, patting him on the head.

"I'd rather kill adults if given the choice," Sam replied with a shrug. "Kids are too easy."

"It's nice to know that you like the challenge," Ruby said, drawing away. "That's useful to know. But I'm not here to test your abilities and preferences, only your obedience." She reached into her pocket and pulled out a small knife. Sam flinched away reflectively, but Ruby turned the knife on herself, rather than him. With a determined smile, she lightly sliced open her wrist, letting blood flow freely from the cut. "Drink," she ordered, holding the wounded limb out to Sam, "before it closes up.

Sam stared at her incredulously, only to meet her eyes and realize that she was not kidding. Sam shrugged—it was not as though he had never tasted blood before—and lowered his mouth to her wrist, sucking lightly at the cut, letting the blood wash over his teeth and swallowing it down, then drawing away.

Her blood tasted strange, somehow. Sam could not count the number of times he had wound up with someone else's blood in his mouth, but it always tasted the same; tangy and metallic, a cold, dead flavor. Ruby's blood tasted of smoke laced with sweetness, a sensation not quite overpowering the tang of the blood, but obviously present nonetheless. Sam stared up at her; it occurred to him that she was a member of a drug cartel, and may well have taken something that would pass from her bloodstream into him. "You don't have AIDS, do you?" Sam asked, carefully, "or anything else that would affect me?"

Ruby shook her head mockingly at him. "No AIDS, no drugs, but it will affect you." She kissed Sam's forehead in a mockery of tenderness. "Trust me Sam, you won't regret it. In fact, I think you'll come to crave it." She turned on her heel and left the room, turning the light out behind her.

Sam sat there in the dark, frustrated with the lack of answers he had received. He tugged at his bonds, adrenaline coursing through his body. It felt stronger than normal, somehow, as though he was being fueled and strengthened with a permanent energy. He strained, and the zip ties on his left hand snapped. Sam grinned at the victory—whatever that woman had put in her blood, she was damn stupid for giving it to him—and jerked his arm up, loosening the twine enough that he could slip out of the ropes. He hurriedly untied the ropes that bound his right arm to the chair and braced his right hand on the end of the chair's arm, reaching awkwardly around to grab the left arm from the underside. He jerked his left arm upwards and slammed down with all the power in his right, snapping the arm of the chair in half. Carefully, wary of splinters, Sam slid his hand back, pulling the arm of the chair out of the tie, which hung uselessly around his wrist.

The belts that bound his torso were held on with simple buckles, and the ties that bound his legs were held in knots that, while complicated, only took Sam a few minutes to figure out. Now he just had to get the cuffs off the legs of the bolted chair. He rose, moving the few inches that he could from the chair, and kicked outward with one foot, splintering the wood. He took a step forward with his free foot and wrenched, breaking free in a shower of splinters. There was no point in moving quietly now; they would have definitely heard the wood breaking. Sam bolted, slamming through the doors and into the punishingly bright, arid sunlight.

Sam only made it a few feet before he was tackled to the dry ground. He slammed face first into the dust and flipped over, struggling back up to his feet. He spun around, ready to face his opponent: Ruby stood before him, a satisfied smirk gracing her lovely features. "You bitch!" Sam growled, lunging forward to seize her neck.

It was impossible; no human could move that fast. Sam barely had time to register that Ruby had dodged him when he felt a slender, frighteningly strong hand twist his arm up behind his back. "Nice job, Sam," she breathed, her breath hot in his ear. "Got out of there a lot quicker than I thought you would."

Sam kicked backwards, knocking her away by several feet. Panting, he spun around to face her. "You really think you can stop me, bitch?" he snarled, sweat beading around his forehead as the sun beat down mercilessly overhead.

"There's no 'think' about it, Sam," Ruby replied, grinning at him as though he was some delectable food she was about to devour. "You feel powerful with that taste of blood in your system? Imagine if all your blood was like that. Then you would know how it feels to be me." She laughed. "Besides, all you've done with it is brute muscle. You haven't figured out how to do anything subtle, anything that might set you apart as more than another generic bruiser." She lunged forward and tackled him to the ground with one arm, producing a length of chain with her free hand from the waistband of her jeans and wrapping it tightly around his throat. Sam gasped as his ability to breathe was abruptly cut off, and wrenched at the chain, struggling to get his fingers under it as Ruby slowly, steadily pulled it tighter. Black spots danced before Sam's eyes and he heaved, fighting futilely to get air into his lungs. Ruby's eyes seemed to go solidly black, and the last thing Sam saw was her elbow coming down at his forehead before he blacked out.

0o0o0o0o0

Dean paced furiously, the pain in his lower body all but forgotten. Rufus had ordered him to stay in his room while he made calls to other associates, but less than an hour had passed and Dean was already going stir crazy. "Damnit, Sam," he muttered, flexing and releasing his fists. "Where the fuck are you?"

He barely heard Rufus enter the room. "Calm down, Dean," Rufus ordered, sitting calmly on the soft, well-made twin bed. "I've got everyone available out looking for Sam. We've got some pretty good connections to both law groups and underground groups. Something's bound to turn up. Ash ran some checks in the news, and there's nothing out about catching the school shooter, so if the law got him they're keeping quiet. Police databases are going to take a bit longer to check, but we're looking into those as well." The man sighed, catching Dean's eyes. "We'll find him, Dean. No one can hide him from my boys, not forever."

Dean nodded, only half paying attention. "You call Bobby?" he asked, running a shaky hand through his short, light hair.

"Yeah, and let me tell you, Bobby's gonna rip you both a new one when we find him," Rufus said with a short laugh, absently fingering the Star of David that hung around his neck. "He told you to tell Sam, if we find him before the old man, that if he's still alive, he's not going to be when Bobby gets through with him." Rufus shook his head. "But I've got my people out looking for him. Apart from keeping an eye on the media either for an arrest notice or a crime that fits his MO, there's not much we can do."

Dean grimaced. "If we're looking for a crime that fits his MO, we're going to be chasing every murder that gets reported this side of the Atlantic," he muttered, shoving his hands deep into the pockets of his worn jeans. "You know Sam. He hasn't got a preferred type, he hasn't got a preferred place, he hasn't even got a preferred weapon. It's one of the things that's helped us out so much in the past." Dean flopped down beside Rufus with a frustrated growl. "Damnit, you're sure there's nothing we can do?"

Rufus raised an eyebrow incredulously at Dean. "You got connections in the media, or with the law, or with the underground, boy?" he asked, shaking his head. "Unless you want to go back to that parking lot and start searching on foot, not much you can do around here. You want to be useful, watch the screens and the internet, though I've already got a good number of my guys doing that. More eyes doesn't hurt, but that's about the only use I've got for you in this one."

The answer was about what Dean had expected, which made it no less frustrating. "Well, if Bobby wants to kill Sam himself, he's going to have to be happy with whatever remains I leave him." Dean scowled, turning his mind to anger at his brother's incompetence—worry and fear would only paralyze him, and anger might actually drive him to get something done. "Can you get me a laptop and a cable connection? I've got some news to keep an eye on."

Rufus nodded, rising from the bed with a groan. "I'll hook you up with the works. Remember, watch it steady, don't jump to any conclusions."

"I'm not a rookie," Dean snapped, annoyed. "I know I'm not a trained part of your crime ring, but I've done this more than a few times myself."

"Didn't mean to doubt you!" Rufus exclaimed, raising his hands in apology. "I know you know your shit. You Winchesters might be independents here, but John's saved my ass and helped with my guys plenty of times." Rufus shook his head. "I'd be shocked if John didn't have you boys as well taught as I keep my people. I'm just saying, looking for a mark or an ally is a lot different than looking for someone you care about. It's a lot harder to be objective with that."

"Sam and I found Dad just fine," Dean retorted, glowering at the wall. He did not want to think about his father; John would have probably skinned him for losing Sam. This would not have happened if John had still been around—if Sam hadn't gotten him killed, Dean reminded himself, gripping tight to his anger. "Just get me the stuff. I'm not gonna fuck it up just because it's my brother we're looking for."

Rufus nodded, clapping Dean on the shoulder before exiting the room. Dean pinched the bridge of his nose, feeling a headache coming on. He'd have to ask Rufus for some whiskey or a beer when he came back with the equipment. "Damnit Sam, you'd better not be dead," he muttered to the empty room. "I swear, if you're dead, I'm gonna find you in the afterlife and kick your ass so hard you'll wish for every other time Dad or I ever punished you here."


End file.
